


40mg of Paroxetine Hydrochloride, Once Daily

by JBMcDragon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bruce Angst, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Returns, Canon Appropriate Violence, Canon compliant through Captain America: Winter Solider, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Feels, Clint is a mess, Complete, F/M, Feels, Found Family, Gen, Imprisonment, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Team!fic, They all need hugs, This is really mostly gen and there just happens to be some romance on the side because it happened, Torture, and Bruce gets tortured, and Bucky is a hot mess, but that's okay because they're all a mess, gen - Freeform, h/c, no bones about it., okay, psychiatric drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 74,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3718129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBMcDragon/pseuds/JBMcDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Steve wants to do is to find Bucky, but SHIELD's downfall has unexpected consequences. Clint coming off his meds, for one. Meds that were finally keeping him balanced after Loki scrambled his brain. With his secrets spread across the Internet, Clint needs a safe house -- and he can only hope that as his mind unravels once more, the house stays safe from him.</p><p>Bruce is learning to control the other guy with SHIELD's help, but when SHIELD falls he finds himself isolated in the desert with HYDRA spies. How does one trap the hulk? Surely, that's impossible. Surely.</p><p>And perhaps Steve wants to find Bucky, but the Winter Solider, ravaged by memory and confusion, doesn't want to be found. He's too dangerous; he needs to be put down. </p><p>It's going to take the skills of all the Avengers to solve these problems, but they've been scattered to the wind. There is no official team. Not yet, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daroos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroos/gifts).



> Takes place just days after the end of Captain America: Winter Solider.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Dawn for beta-reading! All the good is hers. All the mistakes are mine. Violence is canon-levels, and there's some smooching and canoodling both m/f and m/m. No sex, though.
> 
> Just to play it safe, warning for possibly triggery thoughts of self-harm and death. A couple of the characters have some form of PTSD or craziness, and at least one of them gets tortured, so... 
> 
> And finally, this story is finished; I'm working on editing it. It'll all be out before Age of Ultron (and after that, will be canon non-compliant).
> 
> For Dr. Roos, who remains my awesome cheerleading section whenever I need one.

Camp sites became his friend. Better than trash cans, anyway. One day he ate an entire six-pack of a bland sausage labeled "hot dog" before the campers came back. Another day he found a glove in the forest, discarded some time ago. It didn't fit over his metal hand, though, so he left it for the animals. 

There were clothes galore. He washed old ones in the lake, let them dry on branches and rocks, and kept to the shadows. Sunlight was dangerous with his metal arm. Too obvious. He wanted sleeves or oil to cover it, and so stole more clothing.

Despite that, he tried to steal as little as possible. He kept to the rocks and wilderness where he belonged. He didn't know what had happened. Memory came to him in flashes, fragments, snippets, images. 

He trusted no one.

**

Clint Barton winced as the van he'd been in moments before exploded in the rear view mirror. "Okay," he said with some asperity, "the next time you leak all of SHIELD's secrets to the internet -- and, by the way, every enemy either of us ever had -- could you please give me a heads' up?"

Nat only gave one of those minimal not-a-shrugs she was so good at, her capable hands on the wheel. "It was a spur of the moment thing. And I came for you, didn't I?"

Since she had, in fact, come for him, he had to give her that point. "Are my medical records out in the open, too? Because you know that, now that SHIELD's benefits plan is kaput, if that knowledge is common I'll never be hired. People will be afraid of my medication list." In the rear view mirror, two more black sedans rocketed around the burning van and came after them. Clint frowned. "And my bow was in that van, too. I can't believe you didn't get it."

"I was a little busy, Barton." Natasha's lips tightened as she began evasive maneuvers. 

Clint grabbed hold of the oh-shit handle above him. "It was new. And the SHIELD shrinks had finally cleared me for something other than guard duty."

"You were guarding for HYDRA."

He made a dismissive noise, rolling with the motion as the car spun out trying to make a sharp turn. "They were still good benefits." 

"Stop complaining and do something about them." She jerked her head toward the sedans. Natasha braked hard, used the spin to aim them somewhere else, and floored it across a median. "Gun's in the glove compartment."

His head banged against the roof of the tiny convertible as they lurched over the curb. He cursed, opening the glove compartment and yanking the weapon out. "Don't lose me," he said, and twisted out the window to shoot.

"Then don't fall." Natasha's car careened sideways and down a slope. The sedans swerved around traffic. Clint braced as he lurched outward, their shots ricocheting too close to his torso. He fired.

Both bullets hit both drivers. The cars slowed rapidly. Natasha whipped her car back the way they'd come, aiming for the open freeway.

"So," Clint said, flopping back into his seat and checking the safety on the gun before putting it away. "What now?"

***

"Well," Sam said, hanging up the phone. "What now?"

Steve didn't pick his head up from where it was braced in his hands. He'd been sleeping at Sam's place for a few days -- he hadn't gotten the deposit back from his apartment, and they'd apologetically informed him that they couldn't afford the insurance if he stayed, and he couldn't have stayed _anyway_ because HYDRA knew where that apartment was -- but it was more sheer frustration than weariness that kept his head down. He could feel Sam watching him. 

Rubbing his hands over his face, Steve finally looked up. "My contacts are dead. Yours don't know anything. What else do people usually do to find other people?"

Sam plopped down in the chair across from Steve. "Call the cops. But they didn't have any leads. No hits on the BOLO they put out. Steve..." He hesitated, as if considering how his words would be received. "Maybe he didn't survive the crash. I mean, maybe it was someone else who pulled you out of the Potomac."

Steve's teeth clenched. He sat back. "No. It was him. I'm sure of it. So how else do people find others here? What about that -- Google Earth? It includes pictures of people, doesn't it? Maybe we could run his face through recognition software--"

"You've been watching too many crime shows, buddy," Sam said with an apologetic smile. "Maybe it's possible to run facial recognition through fancy databases, but neither of us has access to anything like that."

"Not now that SHIELD no longer exists," Steve added glumly. He tapped the table. "What about Tony Stark? He has all that computer stuff, right?"

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Sure, yeah, but he's not taking my calls anymore."

Steve gave a quick smile at the joke. "No, but he might take mine."

Stark's number wasn't in the phone book, unsurprisingly. Steve called Stark's company while Sam looked on, amused. When he asked for Tony and said he was Steve Rogers, the person on the other end claimed to be an alien, laughed, and hung up. Steve was halfway through dialing _again_ when someone knocked on the door.

Sam stood to answer it, footsteps retreating while Steve worked through the phone tree. There were a lot of swell things about the twenty-first century, but phone trees weren't on the list. 

"Hey, Cap!" Sam called, voice drawing closer from the front door. "Natasha and a friend are here." He stepped into the small eat-in kitchen, moving aside to let Natasha enter. The expression he wore was dubious.

Steve put the phone down and stood. "Natasha!" he said, all smiles. "I thought you were off building a new identity!" 

She shrugged. "I got waylaid," and jerked a thumb toward her companion.

A man in sunglasses, of average height with scruffy, light brown hair entered behind her. He was pulling a Hello Kitty, child-sized suitcase. 

Steve held out his hand, but the man cut him off before he could speak.

"Clint Barton." He took Steve's hand and shook firmly.

One side of Steve's mouth kicked up. "I never forget a name. Nice bag." 

Clint shrugged. "When you're on the lam, you take what you can get."

"Are you on the lam?" Steve asked, eyebrows rising. He'd thought phrases like that had died with Capone.

"You tell me. Did you aid and abet this one here," Clint hooked a thumb at Nat, who'd made herself at home in Sam's kitchen and was pouring orange juice, "in spilling all of SHIELD's secrets and setting every enemy I have on my trail?"

"Quit your complaining and take your pills," Nat said mildly, handing Clint the glass. "Sam, Steve, I have some things I need to do. Clint needs a safe house until he can arrange a new one." 

Clint gave an awkward, one-shouldered shrug. Behind the glasses, it was impossible to read his expression. "It should only take a few days." He held the handle of the suitcase in one hand, and the glass in the other, standing in the kitchen doorway.

Steve looked at Sam. "It's your house."

"Of course," Sam said with some defeat. "You'll have to sleep on the floor, though."

Clint glanced around. "In the hallway, from what I can tell."

"No," Steve corrected quickly. "The hallway's mine. You get the couch." Before Clint could protest -- because it looked like he might -- Steve added, "The couch is too short for me."

"Mini here likes to rest both his feet _and_ his head on the same surface. Wuss," Sam said, with a facetious look skyward.

Clint snorted. "Pussy."

"And now that you've all measured your equipment and gotten that out of the way," Nat said, slipping through them toward the door, "I'll be going."

"Wait--" Steve said, shadowed by Clint's, "Tash--"

Natasha turned to face them, but kept walking backward. "I know, I know," she said, "you won't know what to do without me. Don't worry. I'll be back soon." A tiny smile and she ducked past the screen. It banged shut behind her. 

"So," Clint said into the silence that followed, "do you have an Internet connection?"

**

"Tony," Pepper said with great care, pressing her fingers against her temples only because Tony couldn't see her do it over the phone, "you already _own_ a castle."

"I do?" His voice was just as rapid as usual. "When did that happen?"

"'03." She waved her personal assistant over and gestured for the next meeting to be delayed. "In London."

"Huh." Tony's mouth must have moved away from the receiver, because he called out, "Tell the pilot to change course! Turns out I already have a castle." A pause, then, "Heathrow." He came back to the phone. "Pep? I'm going to London. I'll fly you out, be at the gate tonight--"

"Tony, no."

"--okay, fine, tomorrow morning--"

"Have you taken your medication?"

"What? No. Yes. I took it, just not today." 

She prayed for patience. "Tony, what's the point in having medication if you don't take it?"

"Too many pills, Pepper. They slow me down."

She didn't point out that slowing his mind down was, in part, the point of the medication. The therapist that she'd dragged him to after the whole fiasco with Killian had given him a dozen labels, but only a few pills. Amazingly, knowing that he could survive without the armor had done wonders for his mental state. 

Which didn't make him any easier to deal with.

"Tony," she began patiently.

"Sorry, Pep, gotta go. Crossing international waters or something. Can't afford the fees. You know how it is."

"Tony--" she said heatedly. He'd already hung up. "AGH." She clutched the phone in both hands, glaring at it in lieu of her -- what _was_ Tony, anyway? Boyfriend was too high school, lover implied more stability. He was hers, and sometimes she wanted to kill him. 

Happy popped his head into the room. "Everything okay?"

She took several deep breaths. "Tony," she explained. Happy gave her a compassionate nod. "Let's go. The board of directors won't wait all day." Grabbing her bag, she stood, brushed the wrinkles out of her suit, and walked through the door Happy held open for her. He shadowed her, glowering at the staff as they strode past.

**

It turned out that the secret to finding someone was to tell Clint Barton you needed them found. Sam sat in a chair, watching Clint chew Twizzlers and study his laptop. In the kitchen, Steve cooked and whistled Alanis Morrisette. 

The Hello Kitty bag had possessed all sorts of goodies. More prescription pills than Sam had seen in a while -- and Sam saw a _lot_ of prescription pills at the VA -- a laptop, two slightly different compound bows, arrows, arrow shafts with no points, and stuffed throughout, arrow tips that looked mechanized. 

"Why arrows?" he asked, when it became clear that Clint wasn't typing anymore. 

"Why wings?" Clint replied around his Twizzler. He slanted a look up from under his brows. "I watch the news."

Sam took the question at face value. He grinned. "Have you ever flown?"

"Not with wings."

"Then I'm not sure I could explain it." 

Clint made a noise halfway between a huff and a grunt. "Got a monster wedgie being flown by Iron Man once. Took me a week to get the cloth out of my ass."

It took Sam a minute to process that. He'd figured that Clint knew Steve and Natasha through SHIELD -- that was a no brainer -- but Iron Man? He revised his opinion of Clint up a notch. The only time he knew Iron Man had been involved with SHIELD was at the battle for New York. Sam whistled, low. "Now, that must have been something, to fight aliens."

The comment, meant to open dialogue, drew a quick frown. "Yeah," Clint muttered. "Something." 

"'Course," Sam added, backtracking, "I imagine it's one of those things you can't be fully prepared for." 

In the kitchen, Alanis Morrisette shifted to Rage Against the Machine. 

"Yup," Clint agreed flatly. He put the laptop on the table and turned it so Sam could see the screen. "I've got a back door into the FBI and CIA databases, now. We're running facial recognition off any open source camera we can find, looking for your metal man. Also running bugs on Twitter and Facebook to see if anyone references him."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "You know how to do all that?"

Clint stood and stretched. His shirt rode up, exposing a line of belly and a nasty scar running right through. "Not hardly. Someone on SHIELD put the software on this computer and I thought it might come in handy. When I finished that mission, I took it with me."

Rage Against the Machine cut off. Steve, in the doorway, frowned. "That makes that a SHIELD laptop? You stole it?"

"What? You never took a stapler from the office?"

Steve gave one of those smiles Sam was getting used to. The my-life-was-not-typical smile. "Never a stapler." 

"Oh." Clint clearly didn't understand that smile. "Well, not all of us are boy scouts. SHIELD won't miss it -- especially now." 

"I think what Steve's worried about is, can they track it?" Sam asked.

"Oh. Nah. Took care of all that a while back." Clint looked at Steve. "Does your presence mean food's ready?"

Steve gestured toward the kitchen.

**

_"You're fighting the good fight, boy. Creating freedom for the world. So stop struggling--"_

He spun to his feet, taking in great gulps of air. The rubbery taste of the bite guard was in his mouth, cold metal bands on his arms and around his chest chilling his skin.

Birds went silent, and then cautiously started chirping again. He breathed, and it came out more a gag. He dropped to his knees. Leaned back on his heels. Stared at the sky, blue with wispy clouds. The heat was oppressive, but his skin still felt cold where the metal bands had lain. Even his metal arm, which didn't feel anything at all, felt cold. 

Another breath, and this one was steadier. 

A more recent memory swam to the surface. _"I'll be with you to the end of the line."_

He shook his head, trying to banish that face. The words came back, but this time in his own voice. The face he looked at then was the same man, but thinner, paler, and stricken. He clutched his head as the image vanished, and he scuttled sideways against a tree. "Make it stop!" 

There were too many images. They twisted. He saw a man with glasses. Another with wavy, graying hair. _"I need you to do this one more thing, to make the world safe."_

He clenched his teeth together, refusing to cry out again. He pressed the heels of his hands into his temples. He just needed it to end. There were too many pieces, too many fragments. 

Slowly, they started to ease. He could breathe again. He opened his eyes, and saw sunlight and trees. The forest loam. Deep breath. Another breath. 

Voices.

He stumbled to his feet, grabbing the flannel shirt he'd stolen and jerking it on over his metal arm. He shuffled up his things as the voices grew closer; children, squabbling and playing in the way of the innocent. He flew through the forest. He'd get to the lake. Drink something to soothe his parched throat. And then... then he didn't know what he'd do.

**

Midgard was much less exciting than Thor remembered. Of course, the last time he'd stayed on Midgard for any length of time he'd been revered as a god. They had thrown banquets and feasted in his name. He'd battled creatures and bedded maidens. 

He was still bedding the Lady Jane, but she refused to join him in bedding further maidens. She said it wasn't done. Thor pointed out that both his parents had other consorts, and Loki had even bedded Svaoilfari, the horse god (and consequently begat Sleipnir, and complained about birthing an eight-legged equine for _centuries_ ), but she didn't budge. He mentioned other countries on Midgard where a person could bed more than one other at a time, but his arguments still didn't sway her. He explained the situation to Erik, hoping for some insight into Midguardian women, but Erik had only commiserated with Thor and introduced him to drinking at the local pub.

At least the act of drinking mead and vying for bragging rights hadn't changed much.

When Thor grew restless living in an apartment while Jane went to work, she suggested he "get a job." It seemed a quaint idea, slightly offensive to a prince of Asgard, but eventually he decided at least he wouldn't be so _bored._ And the men at the pub were happy to hire him.

Which was how it came that he was sliding a beer across the countertop, smiling charmingly at a woman in a low-cut tunic. He did quite love the Midgard fashions. 

"I'm afraid," he said without any apology whatsoever, "that I forgot how to make a 'cosmo.' Perhaps this will do instead? I find it a fine, light drink for a lovely lady." 

She smiled at him, dark eyes twinkling. "Well, if you like it..." 

He assured her he did, and moved away to take another order.

"We get more birds in here since you started," his employer said with a laughing shake of his head. "The rest of us are having to learn drinks like cosmos and tequila sunrise. You, though, you just keep serving them beer..."

Thor grinned devilishly. "Aye, and as long as they accept it, I shall continue to do so." A prince of Asgard didn't take orders. He had no reason to truly learn these drinks people requested, and none had yet complained. 

"You--" his employer began, but was cut off by a surprised, flatly-accented voice.

"Thor?" 

Thor's gaze located the man who'd spoken. It took a moment for him to identify the face behind the large, brown sunglasses, but then the man pushed them up into his wild nest of black hair and, aye, Thor did recognize him. 

"Man of Iron!" he called, and vaulted over the bar. Several people yelped and leaned away, as if he would have struck them. Humans were untrusting creatures, sometimes. "Well met, Sir Stark!" He clasped Tony's hand in both of his, grinning with great pleasure. Indeed, he'd missed having his Warriors Three and the Lady Sif, and was happy to see another brother in arms.

"...Game of Thrones?" someone muttered behind him.

"Please, meet the owner of this fine establishment," Thor said, gesturing to his employer. "Tony Stark, this is Peter Chau. Peter, this is one of my warrior-brothers, Tony Stark." 

They stared at each other, then Tony went back to staring at Thor. 

"Why don't you take a break, Thor," Peter said. "I'll cover you a while."

Thor thanked him, already leading Tony over to the only empty seat in the place -- where the servers sat to organize the silver. 

"What are you doing here?" Tony asked, bemused but smiling. 

"I live here now," Thor said. "Myself and my Lady Jane have taken up residences in one of your 'apartments', and now I help this humble barkeep pour drinks. What brings you to my small pub?"

"Uh, wow, okay, even in England you sound Shakespearean."

Thor started to ask, but Tony waved a hand.

"Never mind. I bought a castle. Came into London for the day, and stopped here." 

"Indeed!" Thor said with delight. "A castle is a fitting domicile for one such as you, Tony! Come! We will drink and celebrate our reunion!"

**

Sometimes, he would blink and the sun would be in a different position in the sky. 

Sometimes, a memory would come crashing through the oppressive blankness: cards with a group of rowdy men, all in some type of camouflage. Dancing in shiny new shoes. Watching a woman with red hair fall, clutching her stomach, while the man behind her died. Loading a gun, his metal arm shining dull in the starlight.

Sometimes there was nothing; just the fog that hid most of his memories. 

Sometimes he could think well enough to plan how to steal, what to eat, to think about the shock of recognition when he stood in the middle of a crowd and read about Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, and the Howling Commandos.

Always, there was that voice: _"Bucky!"_

**

When Bruce came back to himself, he was naked.

That was becoming a normal state of affairs, which was slightly disturbing. Bruce sat up and looked around, squinting against the rising desert sun and the red-painted sky. It wasn't hot yet; wouldn't be for a few more hours. The rock formations were familiar, and he was able to pinpoint his location. It looked like the other guy had decided to give him a chance to find shelter before he sunburned (again), which was pleasant. He wasn't too far off from one of his many caches of clothes and shoes, which was also a nice surprise.

Bruce got carefully to his feet, taking mental stock of his current condition. His skin felt a little achy, as if it had stretched and shrunk in rapid order. Which, of course, it had. He made his way across the hard packed dirt, avoiding plants and stones, heading toward the pile of boulders that he'd mentally dubbed "dick hill." 

His clothes were in a hollow just under it. He shook them out carefully -- he'd learned the first day that scorpions and spiders didn't take long to start nesting -- and put them on. By the time he was dressed the sun was higher and almost scorching. He added a hat to his ensemble, shading him from the beating UV rays, then picked up the little recorder. "Day twenty-nine." He sat on one of the boulders in partial shade and thought back. "Have some limited memory of the other guy's night, though it's only emotional memory. As desired, I returned to myself in the morning. It's still coming as some surprise to learn that if I let him out on purpose, the damage is mitigated. More of a surprise to discover that intentions I set forth are being carried out, though not usually in the way I'd planned." He eyed the spot where the rock formation that looked like an old man used to stand. A week ago he'd intended to walk from one side of the formation to the other, and he had. But the other guy had smashed it in the process, which certainly hadn't been his intent. 

His greatest fear was that someday he'd let the other guy out, and he'd never come back to himself. Left to his own devices, Bruce wasn't sure he'd ever have taken this risk. But Nat had pushed for it, in that gentle, completely manipulative way she had, where you wanted to think it was your idea. 

Bruce knew better.

In the end he'd headed to the desert, hundreds of miles away from any people, and start releasing the other guy. Not a week later, she arrived. She claimed she was there to investigate some odd tremors they couldn't quite explain, but she'd come with more food than one person needed. It was her idea to put caches of clothes and supplies around the desert, so that wherever Bruce ended up, he didn't have to worry about immediate dehydration or sunstroke.

It had forged a strange, cautious friendship between them. Between missions, she'd come to the desert to watch. To help. To tell him what went on when the other guy came out. At first, she'd hidden away where the other guy couldn't find her. As time passed, Bruce would come awake to find her waiting, perched comfortably nearby. 

He was pretty sure she was the reason SHIELD helicopters had started dropping food nearby, though he guessed it could just as well have been Fury. Doubtlessly, they all appreciated him getting a handle on the beast. Bit by bit, he'd even grown used to the presence of other people. Nat had introduced him to Andrews, a field agent assigned to help Bruce in any way he needed. Together they'd built a better shelter than Bruce's tarp stretched between rock formations, and Andrews had started filming the sessions. More information was always better. 

Andrews had become a team of two, and then four. Two scientists and two field agents. Nat still came and went, and Bruce still called the shots, but it was nice to have other voices around who seemed just as interested in helping him control the other guy. And it was nice to have other minds around to bounce ideas off of. 

No one treated him like a monster. The team had learned to lay low when Bruce... changed. He still insisted they keep a ten mile buffer. Only Nat came closer, and that only because she didn't listen when Bruce told her stay away until he'd changed back. 

He walked over the desert, knowing it would take him several hours to get back to the base camp, not minding the solitude. Memories washed up to the surface of his mind. Mostly feelings without context. The other guy's emotions ran hot, his impulse control non-existent. The best intentions didn't seem to alter that. Still, every time Bruce did this, it gave him a little more information. He was actually excited to get back to base camp and see what the videos told him.

**

He moved out of the campsite when the bugs got overwhelming. Ticks and mosquitoes and deer flies and waking with slugs every night made the city seem better.

He went from dumpster to dumpster, stealing food, learning the restaurants, examining faces for anyone familiar.

_Nothing_ seemed familiar. Not the cars or the way people spoke or the clothes or the buildings. And yet, he knew it all.   
_  
The Washington Monument, at 38 degrees 53 feet 22.08377 inches north, 77 degrees 2 feet, 6.86378 inches west, facing east. A solid block of stone._

_Lincoln Memorial, built to honor the 16th president, at 38 degrees, 53 feet 21.48 inches north, 77 degrees 3 feet 0.4 inches west, open twenty-four hours a day._

He remembered those from school, of course, but the rest? _The Washington monument was damaged during the 2011 Virginia earthquake and, later that year, Hurricane Irene._ And -- 

_World War II Memorial, 38 degrees 53 feet 21.84 inches west 77 degrees 2 feet 25.86 inches west. Established May 29, 2002._

He didn't remember learning any of that. He didn't remember learning anything. 

"Hey, man." Someone offered him a dollar and he took it, carefully using his flesh hand. The other he kept in his pocket, flannel shirt buttoned to his neck despite the heat. He stared at the dollar for a long time, letting knowledge filter through. Not much you could do with a dollar. People gave dollars to beggars, homeless, and performers. It was better than stealing. He tucked the dollar in his pocket and watched the crowd a little more closely. 

Someone had a quarter. Someone else had sixty cents. Someone told him to get a job, and the aggression in their voice had him sliding to his feet, ready to snap their neck before he realized what he was doing.

No. He didn't need to murder them. He wasn't a murderer, he knew that suddenly. A solider, but not a killer. Just like that, the memories rose.

**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

In a house full of ex-military men, it wasn't surprising that none of them slept. Oh, they all tried, but by one a.m. they were each awake in separate rooms. Steve was aware of quiet shuffling coming from Sam's room, as Sam tried not to disturb them. He knew Clint was awake; he'd seen as much when he'd tiptoed carefully down the stairs and into the kitchen. He sat at the small table, turning pages on a file he'd already memorized. 

He grieved for what Bucky had endured. Mind wipes, freezings, surgeries. Murders. Being a puppet, and at the slightest sign of independent thought his mind destroyed again. 

Steve tipped his head as Clint entered the kitchen, tracking the other man's movement. Clint paused in the doorway, seeing him, then continued to the refrigerator. He pulled out the carton of orange juice and opened it, moseying toward Steve. "That the guy we're looking for?"

Steve nodded and picked up one of many pictures. This one was newly post-surgery. The skin around the metal arm was peeling away, Bucky's body trying to reject the foreign object. They solved that, eventually. 

Clint straddled a chair and chugged back OJ, eyes on the file. When he finished swallowing, he spoke. "Sam says he was a friend of yours. Turned into an assassin but not by choice?"

Steve nodded again. "That's the way of it." He paused, then confessed, "They took away his memories. Implanted this idea that he was working for the good guys. Bucky was my best pal, and now..." 

Clint was mouthing words "Bucky" and "best pal" as if he'd never heard them before. That was all right. Steve was used to the occasional reaction about his language. He'd learned quickly not to say "dame," or "negro," though negro had been considered the most polite term in the 1940's -- far more polite than the derogatory "black." Using that term still made his stomach flip, so he said the more proper "African American" if it was needed.

Clint slid part of the file over, skimming it. Then Clint looked at him, _looked_ at him, as if studying his soul. "If he's alive, we'll find him." 

The reassurance was unnecessary, but Steve smiled anyway. "I know." 

Sam's voice rang out from the bedroom upstairs. "How is a man supposed to sleep with all this yakkin' going on?" He came down and entered the kitchen, eyes twinkling. "You could at least have invited me to the party."

Clint leaned away, propping one arm on the back of his chair. "We figured you needed all the beauty sleep you could get, peaches."

"Whereas you've clearly never had a wink of beauty sleep in your life," Sam shot back cheerfully. Then he noticed the container of orange juice in one of Clint's hands. "Really? You can't drink out of a glass? What, did your mama raise you in a barn?"

"Circus," Clint answered cheekily, and chugged more orange juice. 

Steve chuffed a laugh and closed up Bucky's file. The two of them had been like this all afternoon, too. "Is this it? Are we up, then?" When the other two men were silent, Steve added, "There's a twenty-four hour diner down the street." 

"I'll grab my laptop," Clint said, swinging out of the chair.

"Let me throw on some clothes," Sam added. 

Steve was already dressed -- even at night he wouldn't creep around the house without proper attire on -- so he waited. He placed a hand carefully over Bucky's file. Funny, that things would be better now that SHIELD was gone then they'd been before. He was beginning to feel like he had friends again. Now he just needed to find his first friend.

**

Nat perched on a rooftop across the street, staring at the homeless man bundled in newspapers and discarded clothing. He had a week's worth of facial growth -- likely more -- and carried his left arm as if it were injured. Or needed to stay hidden. 

She'd been tracking him for days, now. Found his path through the campsite, where he'd nested, when he'd left. Found him here, watched him beg and go through trash cans, listened to him talk to himself and argue with memories no one else had. 

She'd found him at last, and now she was at war. Killing him would be the simplest solution. It would even be a mercy, saving him a world of pain. Even if he pieced his mind back together, the guilt over what he'd done would crush him. She knew. 

Still, she hesitated. Clearly, his memories were breaking through. He hadn't killed anyone, or even hurt anyone. Who he had been was winning. Steve would never forgive her, and somehow that mattered. It shouldn't, but it did. She watched him.

**

They took over a little booth in the middle of the diner, not where Clint would have preferred to sit, but apparently where Steve often sat. The pretty blond waitress knew Steve by name, and smiled as they entered. 

Clint opened up his laptop, checking on the recognition program. Still running. He fished a bottle out of his pocket, pried open the lid, and dry-swallowed a pill. Steve was perusing the menu but Sam was watching him. At least, Clint figured, Sam wasn't watching him with either pity or suspicion. Didn't mean he liked it, just that he hated it a little less. "It's so I keep my pants on," he told Sam earnestly. 

Sam snorted. Steve looked up from the menu, seeming confused. "What?"

"My pants," Clint repeated. They were both looking at him with varying levels of confusion and amusement. "Selvig? What, do neither of you watch the news?" 

Steve finally chuckled and looked back at the menu. "I hope he's all right. I don't think any of us expected that Loki would leave such scars on the people he--" Steve stopped suddenly. His eyes didn't leave the menu, but his jaw clenched and his gaze stopped roving the items. 

Clint stared at his own menu hard but unseeing. Self awareness prickled under his skin, chased by embarrassment, shame, and guilt. _It wasn't his fault._ But God, it sure felt like it was. 

Sam was the first to speak. Clint could feel him glancing between them. "What am I missing?" 

"Nothing," Clint said firmly. He closed the menu. "You know, I think maybe I will try to catch some shut-eye." He couldn't get out of the booth; Sam was blocking the way. He closed the laptop and tucked it under one arm. 

"I'm sorry," Steve said quietly. "I wasn't thinking." 

"Wait--" Sam said.

Clint coiled and hopped upward onto the bench seat, then onto the table. He didn't care that the waitress was staring; he needed out. "It's fine," he said to the booth at large, and leaped to the floor. Then he gave Steve a quick, hard look. "Just keep in mind it's classified." He cut a glance toward Sam meaningfully. 

"Of course." The words were swift. As Clint reached the door, he heard Steve sigh, "Well, I sure feel like a knucklehead."

He prayed that was as far as the conversation went. Maybe he would try to get some shut-eye, now that the house was empty. He didn't sleep well anymore ever, but he wasn't about to take sleeping pills when surrounded by people he didn't know. Things, he had to admit, were fucked up.

The house wasn't far. Sam had locked it as they left, but it didn't take long to pick. It was as Clint was entering that the laptop pinged; he'd set it not to sleep when it was closed, so the program would keep running. 

When he got inside and opened the laptop up, there was a 65% match. A homeless guy in the background of a selfie posted to Facebook. Not an hour from where he stood, now, and Sam's car was still in the drive. Might as well check it out.

**

He knew he was being watched. He scanned the rooftops, looking for a glint of light in the darkness. Checked windows. Balconies. The ground. Whoever was watching him was good.

Part of him whispered to get up, to fight, to kill whoever hunted him. Part of him whispered that if his memories were true -- and who could say? -- he should let the hunter win. 

Except he'd been protecting freedom. Hadn't he? He grasped at memories, and they slid between his fingers like oil.

A shadow moved. He whipped around, ready for a brawl. A rat froze mid-scuttle, then raced on. 

He turned to look around again. "Come out!" Nothing happened. Louder, he repeated it. "Come out!"

A window opened. "Shut up!" someone bellowed back. The window slammed. The alley stayed quiet.

**

Nat perched in the shadow cast by a TV dish on a rooftop, watching the man below shout for her to come out. That he knew she was there at all spoke of intense training. 

But that wasn't who she sensed, now. 

"Are you _trying_ to drive him crazy?" Clint asked, from far enough away that he wouldn't be stabbed if he'd surprised her. 

"It's just a bonus," she deadpanned. They were silent for a time. Nat spoke first. "He doesn't deserve to live. I can't imagine he'd even want to." 

"So why haven't you shot him?"

Nat shook her head; she didn't know the answer to the question. "I didn't deserve to live. And I didn't want to." 

More silence. Clint walked closer, peering down into the alley. He made no attempt to hide his presence, but this time, the Winter Solider didn't look up. "So that's him? I assume you wouldn't be here if that was just some random crazy guy." 

"That's him," Nat said. "You weren't sure?"

Clint shrugged. "It was a 65% match on a blurry picture. I wasn't sure." 

"Where's Cap?"

"I didn't tell him. I'm guessing he'll be here soon, though." He'd left a note. 

"So, what's the plan?" Nat asked. She didn't want to come up with the plan. She was too torn. 

"I think you should go talk to him." 

They were bringing him in. Figured. Clint was a softie. "Me? Why me?"

Clint shrugged. "You two have shared experience, I guess."

Nat bit her metaphorical lip against pointing out that of the two of them, Clint had more recently been mind-fucked. He liked to pretend like it hadn't happened. To pretend like it hadn't left scars. "You're never going to heal if you don't treat the wound," she muttered, earning a look of confusion from Clint. She ignored it, swinging over the edge of the building and dropping to the fire escape. She'd deal with the Winter Solider, if only because she could dodge faster than Clint could. 

**

He waited until the footsteps were close, then spun to face them, using his momentum to fling a handful of garbage, following it with a charge while his assailant was distracted.

Except she wasn't distracted. And she wasn't assailing him. She danced away, then leaped again, putting herself out of reach. 

"Easy, big guy," she called out, still retreating. "I'm a friend." 

He knew her. He'd never seen her before. Something remembered was there and gone again. Still, he hesitated. She wasn't, after all, attacking. "Identify yourself." 

"Natasha Romanov. I'm a friend of Steve Roger's." She waited.

He fell back a step. He looked around, as if Steve might leap out of the shadows. "I don't remember him." It was a lie, and it was the truth. Something in him wanted it to be truer than it was. 

"He's been looking for you." She took a step toward him, and he took a step away. "Don't run," she said. "We can help."

_"We can help. Don't struggle."_

He took two more steps back. "I don't want your help." Now his voice was stronger. 

She held her hands up, palms out. "You have friends." 

Now he knew she was lying. Three more steps brought him to the mouth of the alleyway. Then he bolted. She bolted after him, but he had the advantage. He knew the land here, where to jump and what buildings remained open after hours. More importantly than that, once he was out of sight he knew how to drop into a manhole and pull it back over.

She ran above him moments later.

**

"Why didn't you _shoot_ him?" Nat asked furiously, reaching the rooftop once more.

Clint's eyebrows rose. "Seriously? You want me to shoot Captain America's _best pal_?" 

"You could have winged him!"

Clint continued to look at Nat dubiously. "Sure, Cap, I put an arrow in him, but I missed all the arteries!" he mimicked. "That'd go over just fine." 

Nat paced away, still catching her breath, then paced back. "It doesn't matter. He'd have been far more dangerous injured."

"That's the spirit," Clint said dryly. "Why didn't you tell Steve you were tracking Bucky?"

"That," she pointed at where he'd run off, "isn't Bucky. I know that Steve thinks he's going to get his friend back, but that man down there is shattered. He's a murderer, an assassin, and a terrorist. His mind is so fractured that he can't remember what made him a good person. He's a shell." She looked away. Quietly, she said, "He'll break Steve's heart."

After a beat, Clint asked, "Are you sure we're talking about Bucky?" 

She gave him a scathing look. "You get to explain to Cap why he's gone again."

**

She'd called him Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes, Captain America's best friend, the only Howling Commando who'd died in the line of duty, the showcase at the museum said. 

She'd said she was a friend. She and Steve Rogers had been traveling together. He remembered that, suddenly. Steve Rogers was Captain America, and Bucky Barnes was with him in the Howling Commandos. 

What he remembered was that she was a target. Or -- she was in the way of a target. _(A woman in red bent double, clutching her stomach, while the man behind her collapsed--)_

His head throbbed. He pressed it back against the brick wall of the abandoned building he'd finally ended up in. 

He needed -- he needed more information. Knowledge that wasn't his told him how to get it.

**

Steve and Sam were rushing out the door as Clint pulled up. "False alarm," he lied guilelessly. "Just a homeless guy. Not him."

"You should have waited for us, regardless," Steve said, all that forward energy boiling out his voice. "Bucky could be dangerous."

"You're right. Next time." He got out of the car, locked it behind him, and headed into the house. "I'm gonna hit the sack. I'll see you in the morning." 

**

Another day passed with no sign of Bucky. Steve did his best to be patient. He had practice from the forties, when the Commandos would wait for intel before they could move out. So he did laps. He went to the soup kitchen. He sketched buildings and looked at blueprints of faraway architecture online. (The Internet: now there was a swell invention.) 

Everywhere he went, he looked for signs of Bucky. But the Winter Solider knew how to stay hidden. He told himself that eventually they'd find him. That Bucky couldn't stay hidden forever. He wondered what was happening with Bucky, now. Had he remembered? Had he fallen comatose somewhere from whatever they'd done to him? Had Bucky -- God forbid -- ended up back in HYDRA's clutches? Steve wasn't fool enough to believe the beast was dead. 

Cut off one head... 

"Hey, Mighty Mouse." 

Steve glanced up at Sam.

"We need groceries. Again. You're worse than a teenager, and I've had a few of those at the shelter, too."

Steve quirked a humorless smile and flipped his sketchpad to a new page. He started writing a list: cereal, eggs, protein bars, oatmeal. "Can't imagine the age of enlistment's dropped," he said dryly.

"Even nineteen-year-olds can be veterans," Sam replied. 

Clint spoke from the doorway, stumbling in with his hair awry and a crease from the couch on one cheek. "Jesus. I can't remember being that young." He slapped his ever-present laptop on the table next to Steve's sketchpad and flopped bonelessly in a chair, opening the laptop up. "Still no hits on FacRec," he mumbled, and slouched lower to look at it with bleary eyes.

Steve added "coffee," "sugar," and "orange juice" to the list. "You sleep at all?" he asked casually. Clint had collapsed for a nap shortly after Steve had left to run laps.

"Oh, sure. Like a baby." Clint fished a pill bottle out of his pocket, dry swallowed two pills, and tossed the now-empty bottle over one shoulder without looking. It rattled into the trashcan.

"We need to head to the pharmacy for a refill, circus boy?" Sam asked from the kitchen, making toast from half a loaf of bread. 

Clint muffled a smile. "Nope," he drawled, and hung his head back over the edge of the chair. "That was the last of my drugs. Thought I'd head out later. Start work on a new safe house."

Steve paused. "You can't do that," he said finally. "I'm guessing a safe house will be some distance from here, since this was the epicenter of everything, and we need your laptop." He let a smile turn the words from an order into a request.

"Fuuuuuck," Clint breathed. "Nat could track your best pal, too." He lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. Dark circles lurked under them. Then he froze. His hand dropped, eyes staring blankly out the small window at the neighbor's wall. "I bet most of my accounts are compromised." He scrambled for the laptop.

Steve looked up at Sam, but Sam looked no more cognizant of what was going on. After a few minutes of furious typing, Clint cursed again. "My accounts are almost entirely frozen. I have enough to run, sure, but to set up a safe house--? I'm practically broke! I'm going to kill Nat." 

"Well, there's a couch here," Sam said affably. "And I think bunking with Captain America is either incredibly safe or incredibly stupid." He shrugged at Steve with a twinkling smile. "Sorry."

Steve gave an amiable nod. He paused, glancing over Clint's clothes. They were the same clothes Clint had been wearing when he'd arrived. "Should we go to Sears'-Roebucks'?" 

"Just Sears now," Sam murmured, while Clint glanced at Steve sharply and didn't respond. 

Steve made a mental note about the name change -- at least he hadn't been wrong that he'd thought he'd seen a Sears -- and added "razors" and "deodorant" to the list. It seemed a shame, somehow, to sell toiletries and cleaners in the same place as fresh food, but he had to admit it was convenient. 

The laptop pinged. Sam and Steve both froze, while Clint stretched one lazy arm forward and flicked at the screen. He frowned and shook his head. "Sorry. Just my software updating." 

Steve tried not to be too disappointed.

Sam sighed. "We need more bread, too."

**

He sat in front of the computer at the library, staring at the screen but watching the reflections. Tracking people. Marking glances and stares toward him that weren't as subtle as they thought. When he was sure he wasn't going to be attacked, he started an Internet search.

He shouldn't have known how, but he did. Knew the best ways to phrase keywords. Started on news, read the cover-up stories on why SHIELD was suddenly down, checked up on WWII, Captain America, the Avengers, the Chitauri. HYDRA. 

Started looking up names and dates, the missions he remembered and how they'd been reported. When the men he'd killed turned out to be heroes -- then martyrs -- he prayed those accounts were cover-ups. Surely the people he'd assassinated were working against America. It couldn't be -- this.

He bounced through links, hopping from related topic to related topic. Some of it was obviously a story fed to the populace to keep them placid and calm. But some of it...

"Sir?"

He closed off the screen and gave one hard look over his shoulder. 

The woman was hesitant, her hands folding and re-folding. "I-- ah, sorry to disturb you. We'll be closing, soon. There's a shelter down the street..."

"No," he growled. Then he softened his voice. "Thank you." He turned the screen back on, cleared the browser history and the cookies (just in case, but he couldn't remember ever learning how or why to do that), and stood. 

He kept his head down as he exited the library, and wondered where his shadow had gone.

**

Bruce leaned over the dust-covered table in the tent, peering at the video feed from the last time he'd let the other guy out. "Here," he said, pointing. His words were rapid with excitement. "I remember this rock. Just a glimpse, but... it was like watching a movie. Or maybe -- maybe like talking to someone else?" 

They still knew so little about what happened to _him_ when the other guy came out. His greatest horror, and what seemed the highest likelihood, was that the other guy actually _was_ him, his id appearing angry and without control. Like Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde, only even worse. 

But there was no way to know. The times he changed, he blanked out. No memory at all. The very idea that he'd been able to direct the other guy at the battle for New York, or the fall from SHIELD's helicarrier, or lately his voyages through the desert, was a breakthrough. Now, with a glimpse of memory returning...

The truck that came by twice a week, delivering food and necessities to the five-man camp that had sprung up, pulled to a stop with a whine of breaks. Two of the SHIELD agents went to help unload. 

"How much control do you think you have in the moment?" Andrews asked, watching the screen with as much intensity as Bruce himself. 

Bruce shook his head, pulling his glasses off to clean them on his shirt. "I don't know. Possibly not any. It's just a glimpse of memory, and I didn't feel as if I were... actually in control. More like watching television." He wondered if Tony would have any ideas. Tony had ideas about everything, and Bruce had been reluctant to bring him in on this because he'd probably want to do something dangerous -- like try to chat with the other guy -- but maybe it was time. The other guy was getting safer and safer.

Just not safe enough for Bruce to trust him around anyone.

"Bruce!" Jameson called, her voice nearing. "Take a look at this little guy. It's Rosa's grandson."

Bruce turned, smiling automatically at the baby being carried toward him. Rosa was still unloading the food truck, unbothered by the people handling the littlest member of the truck crew. "Well, hello there," Bruce said, reaching one finger toward a soft cheek. "How old?" he asked Jameson.

"A month."

The baby grabbed his finger, and Bruce smiled a little more. "He's got a good grip."

"Here." Jameson pushed the swaddled baby toward him. "You hold him."

Bruce took the boy gracelessly, nearly fumbling in the shift. "Oh -- ah, I don't know--"

"What, you think a little baby's going to bring out the other guy?" Jameson laughed, fussing with the blanket around the baby's feet.

Bruce relaxed. He spoke softly, gently bouncing the infant. "Well, probably not. You're not going to make my pulse race, are you, little guy?" He cuddled the tiny form closer, warding off the chill of the descending evening.

"Ah, here we are," Jameson muttered. "Move your arm, Bruce." Her fingers tugged at him beneath the blanket, while she twisted to look at what she was doing.

Bruce lifted the baby a little higher, trying as well to see what was going on. Then something cold and hard clicked around his wrist, with the familiar ratcheting sound of handcuffs locking. He froze. Jameson straightened and stepped back, looking pleased. 

Cold washed over Bruce. "Jameson," he said quietly. "What's going on?"

Rosa slammed the truck door and drove off. Bruce watched. He felt his heart pounding, and took slow, deep breaths to calm it. "This isn't Rosa's grandson." 

"Try to stay calm, Doc," Jameson said, unholstering her gun.

"Jameson?" Andrews stood, frowning as he came away from the computer. "What's--"

Jameson shot him. He rocked back, slamming to the ground and staring at the top of the tent sightlessly.

"What--" Kuang began, rising. 

Tenner, the other agent who'd been helping to unload the truck, shot Kuang.

Some tiny part of Bruce's mind noted that their five man team was suddenly three. He didn't have a gun, but he had something much, much more dangerous.

"This isn't going to end well for you," Bruce warned Jameson, bouncing the baby as it began to fuss. 

Jameson looked at the infant. "How well do you suppose the other guy would do with a baby? Would he remember to support the head? Or would he just drop it?" She turned to Tenner. "Would the snap from the fall kill it, when it hit the end off the handcuffs?"

Tenner shrugged. "I'm sure there would be brain damage. And probably he'd die when he hit the ground. Or when the hulk stomped on him by accident. Assuming, of course, the cuffs broke off the hulk's wrist."

"Right. Otherwise the baby'd just be swung around like a charm off a bracelet."

Bruce had already gone white. He shifted the infant, now crying, to hold it in the crook of his arm and yanked the blankets up. The handcuff around his wrist was welded to a smaller shackle, latched around the baby's ankle. That tiny foot wasn't tiny enough to slip through. 

"So," he asked bitterly. "Was this always Fury's plan, or did he just decide I was too useful to be allowed freedom?"

Jameson laughed. "Not Fury's plan. Come on, Bruce. Get in the van. And shut the kid up, would you?"

"Or what? You'll shoot him? You'd have no leverage then."

"We'll shoot you," Jameson said, all seriousness. "We won't have any leverage, but do you really want to be the reason little Timmy there dies?"

Timmy. He glanced down at the baby, head dusted with dark fuzz, skin a pretty beige. "Is he even Rosa's?"

"'Course not. It's some rat we bought off a whore. She thinks he's going to a pretty white couple. Don't disappoint her too badly, okay?" Jameson jerked her head toward the truck. "There's milk and bottles inside. Let's go."

**

Sam kept half an eye on Clint, trying to be mostly quiet. He sifted through paperwork for the VA, the television on low. In theory, Clint was doing something on his laptop, but his lids kept drifting half-closed. 

About the dozenth time Clint blinked himself fully awake, he also stood. "I'm gonna get a Coke. You want something?" 

"No, thanks," Sam said, keeping his tone mild. He thought through his words, then offered, "I know the couch isn't comfortable," which was a lie, it was the best couch _ever_ , "so if you'd like to catch up on some shut-eye, you're welcome to use my bedroom." He had to admit, it made him nervous to see a former agent of SHIELD so heavily armed, apparently coming off medication, and sleep deprived. That was a recipe for disaster. 

Clint's voice drifted back from the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of the fridge opening and closing. "I'm all right." He came back in, holding a glass bottle -- Sam was a purist and refused to buy cans -- and sat back down on the couch. 

The house was quiet with Steve off at the grocery store. They'd pulled the curtains across the windows, blocking out the dark. Sam cut quick glances toward Clint, aware that Clint probably knew he was being studied. He looked haggard, skin pale and circles like bruises under his eyes. His eyes themselves were glassy, and a line of tension was carved between his brows. 

"So," Sam said, "how long have you and Steve known each other?"

Clint took a chug of highly caffeinated soda and kept his eyes on his computer screen. "Since the battle for New York, I guess," he said. Then he added, "We're really more acquaintances. We don't run the same missions." 

That surprised Sam, but explained the lack of buddy-buddy behavior between the two of them. "He and Nat worked together," Sam said. "You... didn't?"

Clint shrugged, heavily muscled shoulders lifting. He sat back from his computer, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "I've been out of the game a bit. Had to take some time off after the battle for New York." 

Sam glanced over him without meaning to, hearing the explanation that wasn't given: injury. No marks showed, though, and he thought of the pills Clint had been taking. Not all injuries were physical. As much as he wanted to offer help, he doubted Clint would appreciate it. For all that Clint had been living here a couple of days, for all that occasionally they'd joked, he didn't have a sense of Clint like he had a sense of Steve. Clint was the close-to-the-vest, watershed type. Anything you got from him was just as likely scripted as natural. Those, Sam had learned, were the most dangerous ones. The SEALS, the Rangers, the Green Berets -- people who'd shut out the world so they could get the job done, who didn't trust anyone outside their little sphere. 

It made Sam a little sad, and a little wary. The weapons in the Hello Kitty bag didn't help. 

"What will you do now?" Sam asked, keeping the conversation open. He wanted to help. Some SEALS, Rangers, and Green Berets got to a point where they'd take an outstretched hand, if they were desperate enough. 

Clint let his head drop on the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. "Haven't decided yet."

"You think, with the right background checks, another area of the military will take you?"

A real smile cracked across Clint's face and was gone. "First off, no. I think most of SHIELD's agents are pretty much screwed. And second off, even if they weren't, SHIELD was special and outside the military. I'm pretty sure no other branch of any country's military will take me." He rolled his head to look at Sam. "I don't have the right background." 

It was the closest thing to personal information Sam had gotten. He raised his eyebrows. "What's your background, then?"

Clint stared off into the middle distance. "Sort of... hoodlum," he decided at last. "My options were rot in an African prison, or join SHIELD." 

Sam's eyebrows climbed higher. "African prison?" How the hell had Clint ended up there?

But instead of explaining anything, Clint said, "It's not as nice as it sounds." 

And there was the deflection that Sam had expected. Sam went with it. "Sounds like the Hilton." 

"Well, the room service is regular," Clint conceded. "But--" he broke off, eyes pinching closed. After a second he fitted his hand over his eyes, thumb and middle finger pressing to each temple. "Headache," he mumbled.

"Can I get you something?" Sam stood. 

"No," Clint murmured. Then he moved his hand away, blinking again. "It'll pass." And, apparently, it nearly had. 

Sam watched him closely for another few minutes, then slowly sat down again. "Those happen often?"

Clint was nearly ashen, even his lips pale. Two flags of color burned on his cheekbones, fading slowly. "They're nothing to worry about." He closed his laptop, gathering it up in one hand and his Coke in the other. "I think I will take you up on your offer of a bedroom."

"Sure." Sam waved a hand toward the hall, and watched Clint's stiff gait as he left. He very much doubted that napping was what Clint was going to do. Wounded animals tended to hide.

**

It was a nice prison. There was furniture -- a twin sized bed, a dresser filled with underwear, sweatpants, and shirts -- even a bathroom with an electric shaver, toothbrush, and deodorant. 

No mirrors. Nothing with sharp edges. The television was behind shatter-proof glass. There was a hot plate, a pot chained to the stove, a plastic cup for water (he assumed he'd get that from the bathroom sink), and a tiny fridge filled with milk. Bottles for the baby sat along the back of the hotplate. 

There were disposable diapers and a trash can. A rattle and a pacifier.

They'd cut his shirt off as soon as he'd arrived, since he couldn't pull it off over the baby. He used the other shirts to put between him and little Timoteo -- doubtlessly Timmy was _not_ the baby's name, but it was as good a name as any -- to keep either of them from sweating or drooling on the other. Much as he couldn't remove a shirt over handcuffs and infant, he couldn't pull one on, either. Using it as padding was the best he could manage.

If he were Tony, he was pretty sure he'd have been able to fashion a device out of the refrigerator, TV remote, and electronics in the hot plate to escape. But he wasn't Tony, and knowing how biology, biochemicals, and radiation worked didn't really help him. 

He did try to pick the lock on the cuffs. He only succeeded in rubbing his wrist raw. Over the span of thirty minutes he managed to put one of his socks on Timoteo, tugging it under the shackle and up the fat baby leg, to protect sensitive skin from metal. 

He learned from the news that, while he'd been in the desert, SHIELD had fallen. Somehow, that made him feel better. At least he hadn't been betrayed.

He'd only been there a few hours when the door opened, and a man in a lab coat smiled at him. "Dr. Banner. We're going to draw some blood, and you're going to start running some tests."

"No," Bruce said flatly. 

The man in the coat looked disappointment. "We'll shoot you if we have to. It might destroy everything here, but you'd also kill -- what are you calling it? Timmy?"

" _He_ ," Bruce said, stressing the pronoun. 

"Very well. If you don't want to kill _him_ , you'll cooperate."

And they had him there. It was likely a bluff; they wouldn't want to die, either. But he couldn't take that chance. He tucked Timoteo in the crook of his arm, little feet near his handcuffed wrist, and watched passively as they wheeled machines into his pretty cell.

**


	3. Chapter 3

He had to wait a day to track her down -- when he blinked, it was night, and when he blinked again, he'd traveled miles away -- but by the time the next day arrived, he was ready. She was good enough to know he was coming, so he didn't bother waiting for dark. The shadows might give him the advantage in a fight, but strictly speaking, he didn't want a fight. He wanted information. Besides, he needed to act before the strange blankness took him over again.

He was sitting on the hood of her car when she came out of her apartment building. He hadn't bothered washing or shaving. He hadn't put on clean clothes, or even made sure they fit properly. He'd already made his first impression with her in the alley -- he remembered that -- and figured tracking her down would make a good enough second impression. 

Third impression? Fourth? Twentieth? That he didn't know. He put on a facade and watched her from under his brows, burying his confusion under a layer of anger. 

She subtly altered course halfway across the garage, seemingly not even noticing him, heading now toward another car. As if she'd been headed that way the whole time. If he hadn't known it was her, it might have made him overlook her. 

"You don't want to do that," he said quietly. In the echoes of concrete, it carried.

She didn't do him the dishonor of pretending not to hear. In one smooth motion she found cover and drew a gun. She said nothing. 

He stayed still, though he already knew how he'd block if she shot. Which way he'd go to intercept her, if he had to. 

"What do you want, Barnes?" she asked.

The name made his heartbeat pick up. It brought a wash of memories, images, flickering sounds that were there and gone again. He refused to let any of it show. "Information." 

There was a hesitation in her voice. "Sure." She didn't put her gun down, nor did she come closer. "On what?"

The elevator pinged. Laughter floated out as the doors opened. This wasn't a mission, exactly: he could catch her again. He'd rather avoid collateral damage, but he couldn't let her know that. It would give her too much of an edge, if she was willing to risk innocents. 

She slipped into the shadows, but he could still see her. He edged off the car and into darkness, weaving between pillars and vehicles. He paced her, and they both paced away from the elevator. It was forever before the little family cluster got into an SUV and drove off. 

"Steve's been looking for you," she said, now only twenty feet away. She kept both pillars and a truck between them, kept her gun trained on him. Her movements were lithe and graceful. "He'll give you all the information you ask for."

"No," he said. The very mention of Steve brought up too much. Too many feelings, too many conflicts, too much of everything. There was shame and horror there, but he didn't know why. He didn't remember Steve.

Except he did. Here and there, in flashes that broke through his consciousness, only to sink again to the murky depths. It was _too much_. 

"All right," the woman said softly. "What information do you want?"

She was luring him toward the back of the garage, making her circuitous way slowly to the emergency fire alarm. He allowed it. 

"Why were you targeted for termination?" he asked. 

"I wouldn't go along with HYDRA's plan. I imagine they wanted me stopped."

That followed with what he'd read. With the memories breaking through -- the Red Skull, Nazi Germany, HYDRA. Weren't they all interconnected? He'd fought them before...

_No_ , a voice in his mind whispered insidiously. _HYDRA fought for freedom. SHIELD was the danger_. Nausea nearly overcame him. He swallowed saliva and refused to vomit. The next question broke free in his moment of weakness, though he didn't mean for it to. "What did they do to me?" His voice was hoarse as he tried to shut down the words. 

Her face was bisected by a concrete pillar. Still, in one sharp eye he saw the softening of compassion before it flickered away. "They unmade you. Whatever they did to you in World War II, before Steve found you, kept you alive when you fell off the train. They found you. They did worse to you. They re-wrote your mind. Then they re-made you in their image of a soldier."

Her words, so matter of fact, gave him time to gather himself. 

"Why should I believe you?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"Why should I trust you?" He stepped around a truck. She stepped around the pillar and back, putting a Hummer between them. 

"You shouldn't. You should trust Steve. I can take you to him--"

"No!" he snarled.

She twisted and rolled over the top of a Camry, putting that and another pillar between them. He slowly started closing the space again. 

The elevator pinged. A man in a wheelchair came out. She kept creeping toward the fire alarm, and he moved to change her course slightly. Neither of them spoke until the man in the wheelchair had gotten into a van and left. 

"You tell me what I need to know," he growled. "I don't want to see Steve." 

"Okay." She slipped to the side. "What do you want to know?"

He followed. "What did they _do_ to me?" he said again, frustration growing. 

This time when she spoke, her tone sounded raw. "They re-wrote your memories. What do you want me to tell you? That it'll all be fine? That this was all a big joke and we can give you an injection to make it all better? They twisted your mind, Barnes. They shredded who you were, and they made you a monster." 

He stopped pushing her. She stopped sliding away. "Maybe you're lying," he said, desperate for that to be true.

She shook her head. "You know I'm not." 

He could feel it. In his gut. Everything was so very wrong. 

She spoke quietly, though her gun still trained on him didn't waver. "I know memories are breaking through the mind-wipe. Who you were. Who they made you. What you've done. I don't think anyone can help you. The kind thing would be to put a bullet through your head."

He ignored the last part. If she'd been going to shoot him, she would have tried already. She was saying things he knew to be true from his experiences over the last days, but... Something inside him tore. Maybe she was lying. Maybe they could make it all go away. "Why should I believe you?" he asked again, but instead of sounding angry or accusatory like he'd meant it to, it just sounded pathetic. 

She lowered her gun. He knew, then, that he was done. "Come upstairs," she said, and turned toward the stairwell.

"How do you know I won't kill you?" he asked her retreating back.

She glanced over her shoulder. "I just do."

"How do I know you won't try to kill me?"

She said simply, "I won't."

He followed.

**

The skin around the handcuff was raw and angry, starting to ooze pinkish exudate as the cuff continued to damage the cells. Knowing what caused it didn't make it any less painful. 

Next, Bruce figured, it would start bleeding. The healing process and the wounding process were conflicted enough that it would scar as it bled, and he only hoped that he didn't get some sort of metal poisoning from the cuff itself.

He ran out of thoughts to distract himself with. He'd made a mistake, he realized that now. When they'd plastered him with electrodes and told him things like, "Hold your arm in the ice water until you can't do it anymore," he'd done what they said, afraid they'd hurt Timoteo. Now they thought they had an accurate reading of his brain activity. Now they thought they could hurt him without the other guy coming out. 

Bruce's heart pounded harder at the very thought of it. At the thought of continued torture. At the thought of losing control, and the other guy killing Timoteo. At the thought that he _couldn't_ lose control, couldn't let the other guy out, couldn't get free, because it would kill the baby. At the thought that he would have to allow himself to be tortured to keep from killing an infant.

This was the ultimate philosophical question: was his pain and suffering worth the life of an innocent? He rather preferred it when philosophical questions were pondered and not enacted. 

"Bruce?"

He drew his gaze away from Timoteo, laying at arm's length (never farther than that, of course) on an adjacent cot, and looked at the doctor. 

The doctor held two syringes. "This," he said, lifting the first one, "is going to interact with your nerves, making them feel as if you're injured. This," he lifted the second one, "is going to block your sympathetic response. It won't quite immobilize you, but it will be very difficult for you to act. Yesterday, as you know, we tested out your pain thresholds and charted your physical reactions. Today's experiment is to see if sedating you without actually lessening your pain will suffice to bring your heartbeat down to safe levels, or if the pain itself, regardless of heartbeat, will trigger a transformation response. We would appreciate your cooperation in this, but as we don't expect it, the electrodes will tell us if you are close to losing control or not."

He'd tried talking to them yesterday, but he had to try again. "Don't do this. A single slip up could kill everyone in this building. No one knows what triggers the other guy and what doesn't."

They ignored him, as they had before.

He could get through this. He had to get through this. He couldn't let the other guy out. He had to endure until he found a way to escape. 

The needle depressed into the IV. Liquid ran into his elbow. Fire crept up his arm almost instantly. It was all mental, he knew that. The drug was harmless; it sent his nerves impressions that major damage was being done, but in fact there was nothing. It didn't stop the pain.

Before he could start screaming, they injected the paralytic. He felt his heart rate slow. His breathing deepened. He tried to look at Timoteo, to give himself something to focus on other than the unending, uncontrollable pain, but his head would barely move. Instead of a scream, he groaned. 

Out of his peripheral vision, he could see the monitors that tracked brainwave activity light up. 

"I'd say he's an eight or nine on the pain scale," a woman said. "I wouldn't heighten it until we're sure we can bring him out of it."

He tried to convulse, and only shuddered. He tried to beg them to stop it, but all that came out was a whine; high and keening. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, and dripped down to soak into his hair.

"Fascinating. Wait -- back the pain off," someone said. "You see this bit of his brain lighting up? It only lights up when he starts reaching his limits. Back it off!"

Bruce couldn't think his mantras. He couldn't imagine a cool river under the trees, or a stark sunset over the desert cliffs. He couldn't take deep breaths.

But the pain was receding. 

"There," the doctor who'd started it all soothed. "That's better, isn't it?"

Bruce's eyes flicked toward the doctor, and he hated him, but he couldn't stop the gratitude that welled up. The overwhelming, desperate sense of gratitude as the unimaginable pain ebbed. 

The nurses were already wheeling their machines from the room, talking about what they'd succeeded in doing, chattering with excitement. Talking about tomorrow.

The doctor put his hand on Bruce's shoulder, unstrapping him and smiling. "We're going to learn how to trigger your transformations, both ways. And then we'll learn how to control you when you become the monster. And then you'll be useful." With a final pat, the doctor left him, locking the door of his pretty prison behind. 

Timoteo cried.

**

Sam rubbed a soft cloth over his car as Steve ran up, barely breathing hard but his shirt sweat soaked. 

"Just getting back?" Sam asked innocently. "I already got my run in this morning. Twenty miles in twenty minutes."

Steve laughed. "I'll have to work harder to keep up." He picked up another soft rag and began on the other side of the car with the same care Sam had. They worked in silence, drying it, for a moment. 

"Where's Clint?" Steve asked, picking up the wax and lifting it in silent question.

Sam shook his head. No time for wax, today. "Sleeping." He worked a smudge off the window. "How well do you know him?" 

"I fought with him," Steve said, shrugging. "I trust him with my life. I can't say I really _know_ him, but any friend of Nat's..."

"Hm," Sam murmured. He didn't want to say anything bad about Clint, but he also didn't like the thought of a heavily armed SHIELD agent losing it in his house. He'd barely scraped together the down payment for this place even with the VA's assistance. "Well, he's resting and I've got to get some stuff done at the VA. Think you can keep an eye on things here?"

Steve gave him a studied look, but only nodded. "Of course. Did something happen?"

Sam shook his head. "Just... He seems tense." 

Steve gave Sam a wry look, and Sam smiled in acknowledgment. Clint was an ex-agent of a newly crippled, heavily infiltrated secret organization. Of course he was tense. 

But Steve only said, "I'll keep an eye on things."

**

"Thor," an aggravated female voice said. Tony buried his face farther under the couch pillow, hoping to block out the world. "I thought we talked about this. In Midgard, you have to do your _own_ dishes."

"Aye, my apologies Jane," Thor said. "But those are not my dishes."

"They're not -- then whose...?"

Tony flapped around for the blanket, found it, and pulled it up over his head. 

It didn't stop the female voice -- Jane, he supposed -- from saying right above him, "And who are you?" 

Damn it. Clearly this wasn't working. He threw the blanket and pillow off and sat up quickly. Quickly was the only way to get it over with. He blinked wildly at Jane.

She was cute, in a plain sort of way. Long, straight, brown hair. Brownish eyes. Flippy little nose. Slim and short, which only made her look even more delicate next to Thor. "Hi," Tony said.

Her brownish eyes were getting bigger. "Are you-- Is that-- Tony Stark?"

"Verily," Thor laughed, "I believe I told you he was in London." 

Tony tipped a nonexistent hat at her. "Now, if you don't mind, Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod are still calling my name." He flopped back down onto the couch and yanked the blankets over his head. 

"Thor!" Jane hissed. "Tony Stark is on my couch!"

Thor laughed more. "Aye, Jane. He is a good friend." 

Sounds of scuttling grew. "Don't just stand there! Help me clean up!" 

God, he was _never_ going to get back to sleep now. He did his best, anyway.

A door opened. "Darcy!" Jane said. There was furious whispering and then, a new woman's voice, " _Tony Stark_? Oh my God!" The door slammed. 

"No--" Jane cut herself off. "You're supposed to help me clean!" 

A few minutes later the door opened again. Tony buried himself further under the blanket and pillow. He could feel eyes on him, though. Thor was chuckling, following Jane around like a puppy. Tony realized, suddenly, why he liked Thor. Thor treated him like Tony. Everyone else treated him like _Tony Stark._ God, he missed Pepper. And Happy. And Rhodie. 

He sighed into the loose weave, then moved the blanket just far enough to peer out. A woman -- barely a woman -- was perched on the corner of the coffee table, watching him. She smiled. Her hat, a knitted monstrosity with danglies on either side of her face, practically trembled with her glee. "You'd better be the coffee fairy," Tony grumbled.

"I have something even better." She presented him with a file. "My resume."

"Darcy!" Jane protested. Ah. That got Jane to stop her flurry of cleaning. "You work for me!"

"Oh, please," Darcy scoffed, turning to face Jane. "You can't blame me for shifting allegiance to Tony Stark. He's Tony Stark!"

Jane flung a hand at Tony. "He sleeps with everyone he hires!"

"Hey..." Tony mumbled, rubbing a hand across his face. "Only the attractive ones." 

They all ignored him. Darcy shrugged. "I'd hit that." 

"I'm laying right here," Tony said, but it too was drowned out under the back and forth of Jane and Darcy. He curled the blanket more firmly around his head.

Thor sat down on the other end of the couch, forcing him to move his feet. "A morning beverage to break your fast," he said.

Tony moved the blanket far enough to see, and saw a giant steaming mug extended. He sat up warily and took it, breathing deeply. Strong coffee, with just a hint of whiskey. "To the dog's hair," he said, lifting his mug.

Thor looked a little puzzled and said, "To Fenrir, then," and knocked mugs. They both drank deeply. 

When Tony stopped drinking, he nearly leaped back at the sight of Darcy. Sitting on the coffee table. Staring at him again. "Well?" she said, hoisting her resume.

"Ah..." He wasn't going to take that. What was the point in being rich if you couldn't be eccentric? "My people will call your people."

**

Nat carefully didn't look at Barnes even as she kept track of him. He kept a path open between himself and the door. She kept a path open between herself and the fire escape. She got two mugs from the cupboard and filled the kettle. "Tea?"

"No." His stomach growled.

She set aside the sedative-laced teabags. "Coffee? Food?" Finally, she turned to face him, keeping her movements well telegraphed.

His hair was greasy and hung in his face, which was mostly hidden by beard, now. Blue-gray eyes flicked around, tracking everything. There was something vulnerable and frightened in them, and she couldn't help but think that Bucky hadn't been a good liar. 

Then the Winter Solider took over, and everything about him hardened. "So you can poison me?"

"I was thinking more sedation," she said, faking ease. The way he narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth was a little unexpected, and she made a note of it. He could have reacted in any number of ways -- she'd expected him to think it bravado -- but clearly, drugs were a sore point. 

"If you'd like to get yourself something, then." She gestured to her kitchen, sliding out of it as he slid into it. They kept ample space between each other. She made sure she had a clear path to the door. He made sure he had one to the fire escape. She also knew were her weapons were stored. If he lunged forward, she'd go left, slow him down with tear gas under the lamp, get out the door. If he grabbed a knife, she'd--

He took the loaf of bread sitting on the counter and opened it, still watching her. He ate the first slice with his gaze still riveted. Then his eyes clouded and closed, and he melted down to the floor, the heel of his hand pressing against his forehead. "No-- no--" he whispered, bread crumbs speckling his lips.

Natasha already had a taser in hand, not at all sure what was going on. She had some ideas. She'd lived something similar. "Let it go, Barnes," she said. "It's an old memory or it's the reprogramming, but it's not going to help you now."

His words started quiet, and ended in a roar. "What did they do to me?" His metal arm slammed out, through her cupboards, splintering wood. Pots and pans screeched as they bent and ruptured under his fist. Natasha nearly pressed the trigger. 

But Barnes was looking at his metal fist in horror, at the damage it had wrought. "I'm sorry," he breathed. Back was the vulnerable, confused look. Natasha didn't put the taser down. The look hardened again. He stood, glaring at her. "How do I know you didn't cause this?"

"You don't." 

He stalked closer. Everything about him shifted. His expression blanked, and he moved with a predatory, determined grace. 

She faked fear, waiting until he was on top of her. Then she aimed at his thigh, too low for him to block easily, and pulled the trigger. Electricity jolted through him, enough to bring down an elephant. The Winter Solider was impressive, but he wasn't an elephant. 

Even being a not-elephant, he wouldn't be out for long. Nat didn't bother taking the prongs out of his leg; she dropped the taser and ran, yanking the tranq gun out from under the couch, still racing for the hall closet. She'd always known that the superhuman restraints that SHIELD had designed -- and unsuccessfully tried to use on Steve -- would come in handy. 

He was already twitching when she hit her knees beside him, clapping one of the cuffs around his ankle, twisting that up behind him and attaching it to his metal arm. The other restraint she clapped around his flesh wrist, yanked him the six inches closer to the wall he needed to be, and let it attach itself to the metal plating she'd installed a few days earlier.

She skipped out of distance just before his eyes fluttered open. Then she sat cross-legged, the tranq gun over her knees, watching as he flung himself about in an attempt to get free. 

He went still at last, panting, contorted uncomfortably and still on the floor. Then he blinked several times, and seemed to come back to himself. Confusion and anger chased each other across his face.

"I'm not stupid enough to let you roam my apartment," she said calmly, "when you're not even in your right mind. I don't even trust you when you _are_ in your right mind." 

He looked at her.

"I apologize for the indignity of your position," she said. "But I'm not letting you loose, and I'm not coming closer."

For a moment, he just stared. Then he said, "What about when I have to take a leak?" 

"I'll bring you a bottle." 

It didn't surprise her when that brought a half smile to his face. Crazy or not, she had a read on him, now. 

**

Clint stared into the refrigerator, blinking exaggeratedly to try and regain some focus. The items came into sharp relief again, and he pulled out cheese, salami, an apple, and the loaf of bread. 

"Hungry?" Steve asked.

Clint peered at him. What kind of question was that? He'd taken too much food. No, no. That was ridiculous. Had there been anything in Steve's voice other than polite interest? Was that censure?

"Clint?"

He put all the food on the counter next to the bowl of fruit. "Yeah. Want a sandwich?" 

"No, thanks, I ate earlier. I could start some supper, though, if you're ready." 

"I'm good." His head throbbed. He bit into the apple, cut a hunk of cheese, pulled out several slices of bread and tucked them in the pocket of the hoodie he'd"borrowed" out of Sam's hamper. 

What he needed, he thought, was some pills. But he'd taken the last ones. He realized he'd lost his focus again, and struggled to bring the items on the cutting board into relief. It increased his headache. He grabbed several slices of salami, wrapped his apple, cheese, and meat into a paper towel, tucked another few pieces of bread into the hoodie, and put everything back into the fridge. Before he closed it, he snagged an egg from the carton, palming it. 

"Sam'll be home in a couple of hours," Steve said. "Supper then?"

"Great." Clint fled to the bedroom, where he could dim the lights and ignore his headache.

**

Night fell, but all the lights in Natasha's apartment stayed on. It was, in a strange way, soothing to be restrained. To simply obey and not think. To have his choices taken away. 

It made him sick, how soothing it was. Something in his mind whispered to just let it all fall away, all the stress and confusion, the memories, the anxiety. Another, very tiny, part of him screamed to fight back. 

Natasha had been with him all evening. She asked him questions, skid food that he could eat without hands across the floor to him, told him about the world and everything that had happened. 

He watched her as she approached now, carrying a plate with two steaks, both already cut into bite-sized pieces. She settled down near him.

"I could hurt you at this range," he pointed out, too docile to actually do it.

"You could," she agreed. She speared a bite of steak onto a fork and held it out for him. 

He hesitated a moment. He remembered being restrained, biting down on rubber so he wouldn't bite through his tongue when the pain struck. He stared at the steak.

"Do you know that being bound seems to be one of your triggers? It puts you in a receptive state of mind." 

Fear lanced through him. He snapped the steak off the fork. Chewed. Tucked it in one cheek to ask, "What do you want?" 

He suspected she was being honest when she answered, "I have no idea what to do with you. I can't let you go. Spark the wrong memory, and you'll hurt people. But I can't keep you here, like a pet."

His emotions deadened. He had to escape. He had to get back to his masters.

As if the words were written on his face, she said, "Exactly. I should call Steve."

That name snapped him out of it. "No!" It burst from his lips before he could control it. The knowledge that he couldn't stop her while he was restrained bled through him, stripping away defiance. "Don't. I couldn't-- He can't see me--"

She shook her head and offered him more steak. After a moment, he took it. She ate a bite, herself. "SHIELD helped me. SHIELD's gone now. The best I can do is keep you here, and keep telling you about the world." 

He nodded slowly. "Keep me here." He shouldn't trust her. He knew it was probably the programming she spoke of -- that once in the hands of someone viewed as in charge, maybe he was just designed to acquiesce. It didn't matter. He couldn't hurt more people.

She fed him another bite of steak, exhaling slowly. "This is such a terrible idea."

**

Sam blinked at his dresser drawer full of bread, granola bars, and -- was that a raw egg? He knew, from Steve, that Clint had spent the afternoon in here. That was fine. Clint was currently in the shower (where he'd been for the last forty-five minutes), leaving Sam free to use his own room.

Which was filled with food. 

"Dude has issues," Sam muttered, taking out the slices of bread and the egg and carrying them into the kitchen trash. "What's with your friend?" he asked Steve.

"Clint?"

Sam grunted an affirmative.

Steve poured a can of cream of mushroom soup over noodles in a pan. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"He's hoarding food." 

Steve frowned at the noodles. He picked up the pan and shook it, blending soup and noodles together. Then he set it down, opened a can of green beans, and poured that in as well. "I have no idea why he's doing that. I don't know him well."

"Hm." He watched Steve stir everything together again. "You know," he said, looking dubiously at Steve's concoction, "cream o' something soup and canned green beans do not make a healthy meal."

Steve looked offended. "I was going to add ground beef."

"We need to talk about nutrition," Sam began, then heard the shower shut off. "--Later." He raided the cupboard for more granola bars, then headed to the living room where Clint still kept his Hello Kitty bag. Sam was there, stuffing it full of bars when Clint came out, short hair in wet spikes.

"What are you doing?" Clint asked sharply. 

Sam held up a granola bar. "Loading you up so you stop putting them in my dresser." 

Interestingly, Clint paled before coloring. There was a sheepishness about him now. "Sorry. I don't -- I just wanted--" He scrubbed a hand through his hair, winced, and pressed the heel of his palm into his temple. 

"Are you okay?" Sam asked.

"Of course." But he obviously wasn't.

Sam had dug out the drug bottles Clint had tossed in the trash, but didn't recognize the drug names. In fact, most of them had letters and numbers in lieu of names. He'd kept them, just in case, tossing them into his emergency kit for safekeeping. "The meds you were on," he asked. "What were they for?"

Clint gave him another suspicious look. "Why?"

"Because you only just came off them, but you're already acting odd. Can we get you some more?"

Steve appeared in the doorway, whatever concoction he'd been working on apparently done for the moment. He looked worried.

Under their combined gaze, Clint dropped his hand from his head and shrugged, all signs of pain suddenly gone. Sam could feel the walls coming down, and silently cursed Steve for appearing at that moment. "Cap," he said, "give us a minute?"

With a worried frown, Steve went back into the kitchen. Clint looked even more wary.

Shit. Sam sighed and plopped himself on the couch. "Look, man, I just want to help. What if I found a doctor for you to talk to? You don't have to talk to me. Let's just get you back on--"

Clint snarled a laugh. "If SHIELD is gone, then there aren't any more. Those were experimental." He looked a little surprised, as if he hadn't meant to say that. Then he cursed and rubbed both eyes. "Relax. I'm not any more dangerous off them than on them. I'll try and stop with the food."

It wasn't the result Sam was hoping for, but it was the best they could do for now. Maybe he'd look into the medication. See if it really was experimental. Maybe Clint just didn't know. Maybe someone else made it somewhere. Hopefully, Clint was right about not being any more dangerous without them.

**


	4. Chapter 4

She'd been half serious about making him piss in a bottle. Only half, which meant he got a pan. Since he had no hands it was a bit of struggle, but he managed it at last. She didn't offer to help. He didn't ask. 

She gave him a a bucket of water with a long straw, and talked constantly. Facts, stories, news. When she wasn't talking, she turned on public radio. She had no television. 

Sometimes she fed him. Sometimes she was busy, and she put food down for him that he could eat out of a bowl. He expected to feel angry, even humiliated, but she was so matter of fact about it, so busy with other things, that he never did. It was just how it worked, since she couldn't trust him. 

Memories swam. He didn't know what was real and what wasn't, but more things were coming to the forefront of his mind. "How well do you know Steve?" he asked at lunch, when she was sitting cross legged near him, eating a sandwich, giving him bites of his own when he swallowed.

He was learning to read her as, no doubt, she was learning to read him. The flick of her eyelids down to his sandwich as she offered it spoke words (discomfort), not volumes (why not?), but it was something. "I trust him. I think I know him reasonably well."

He watched her, chewing. He swallowed. "How well does he know you?"

The tiniest smile acknowledged a hit. "Not as well as he thinks." She offered him another bite. He took it. "We work very well together." She looked at him, and he looked away, trying to school his face into neutrality, knowing he didn't succeed. More and more often, he didn't succeed. There were so many emotions, and his feelings were raw all the time. Like a muscle, not used in years and then suddenly forced to exert itself. 

"You could trust him. You were soldiers with him. You could at least trust him that much." 

A memory rose and he blurted it out, knowing that it would vanish soon. But if he said it, then someone else in the world would know it. It wouldn't be a mystery anymore. "Steve could tell bawdy jokes with the best of them. But put a camera in his face, and he'd suddenly be Mr. Perfect. He--" It was gone. "No," he whispered, and let his head rest against the wall. 

"Barnes?" 

_We need something of you._

He opened his eyes, started to sit up, felt the restraints, relaxed. "Sir?"

The redhead in front of him pursed her lips. "Rest," she ordered, and stood.

"Yes, sir," he said, relieved, and closed his eyes.

**

The skin between Clint's shoulder blades itched, as if someone was watching him. The problem was, they'd been itching like that all day -- in Sam's house and out of it -- and he couldn't find anyone watching him. 

His paranoia levels had been through the roof before they'd put him on that medication cocktail. Then again, it wasn't paranoia if you were right. 

He lagged along behind Sam and Steve, helping as little as possible in their search to track down Bucky. He didn't figure Tash would appreciate it if they found him. These two, thankfully, were soldiers, not detectives. Neither of them had ever had to play spy; they didn't know how to find someone, and with Clint deleting every sighting of Bucky that FacRec brought to his attention, they weren't having much luck.

They _had_ narrowed in on a string of odd thefts; mostly clothes from a campsite. Clint, who'd figured out Bucky had been there some time ago, was impressed they'd gotten so far.

It had been Sam's idea to show Bucky's photo to people who'd been camping in that area around then. It meant a lot of time in the car, as they drove from one house to the next.

"Hey," Clint said, sitting forward between the two front seats. "I bet they've seen him in there." He pointed at a building with a neon sign: The Gentleman's Club. It had a flashing figure of disembodied women's legs. Very classy. 

Steve frowned. "Why do you think that?"

Sam grinned; one of those big grins that showed off his white teeth. "Oh, yeah. Clint and I can go check it out tonight." 

Steve looked at their grinning faces, then back at the building that was rapidly fading into the distance. "Is that a grindhouse?"

"If a grindhouse is a strip club, then yes," Clint said. 

"Come on, fellas." Steve sounded utterly exasperated. "We're looking for Bucky, here. Can't you put that on hold until we find him?" 

Clint was bored. He flopped back against the seat. He twisted to look behind them, just to check and see if they were being followed _now._

Still not.

His headache pounded at the base of his skull. He rubbed it again, wincing at the feeling of a bruise, and scratched instead. There was something there. Some kind of mole or pimple or skin tag. He hissed when he broke the skin, frowning at the blood under his nails. 

"Hey," Sam said. "Circus boy. You okay back there?"

Clint jerked his head up. How did Sam know--? Was it the hoarding? How _much_ did Sam know?

Then he remembered, slowly. He'd made a crack about growing up in the circus, and Sam had been calling him circus boy since. Probably, Sam didn't know anything. 

"Fine." He needed to be calm. Act normal. He pressed at the spot he'd made bleed.

"We're here. Apartment eighteen," Sam said, pulling over.

Clint was out of the car even before it had stopped, ignoring Sam's yell from the driver's seat. As if a moving car was any issue for him. 

The light blinded. Focusing was difficult. He squinted, pulled his sunglasses down his head to cover his eyes, and headed into the apartment building. 

The building was skinny and went straight up. According to the directory, eighteen was on the fifth floor. 

He got into the elevator, Steve and Sam with him, and eyeballed the woman who joined them. She pushed seven. Clint pushed three. Steve, with a glance at Clint, pushed five. 

When the doors stopped on three, Clint got out. He held the doors and looked at Steve and Sam. "You coming?" 

"It's not--" Steve began, and Clint cut him off, giving an order. "Come out."

With a glance at each other, Sam and Steve both left the elevator, waited for it to close, and then turned to Clint. 

"Okay," Steve said. "What was that about?" 

"I wanted to make sure that woman wasn't following us." As he said it, he realized how ridiculous it sounded. But he was sure, _sure_ , that someone was following him. He had that tingle.

It wasn't paranoia if it was true. Maybe HYDRA was looking for him. The object he'd been sent to deliver hadn't ever made it, after all. It was still in his Hello Kitty bag. He hadn't told anyone about it. 

"So paranoia is one of the things you were being treated for, huh?" Sam said wryly. "'Cause I might not be a spy, but I know when I'm being followed. And a little old lady with a handcart isn't it."

"Fuck you," Clint snapped, unaware of the words until they were already out. 

"Easy, boys," Steve began, but Sam just laughed. "Only if you pay me, with a mug like yours." 

Somehow, the laughter brought his temper down. Clint snorted. "I don't need to pay for sex. I get that in spades."

"I don't believe it," Steve -- Steve! -- said, and shouldered past him to the stairwell. 

"Hey!" Clint objected, following. "I get more tail than you do!"

From behind them Sam drawled, "Bond. Clint Bond." 

The stairwell was circular. It'd be _perfect_ for leaping up -- hop onto this rail, then leap for the opposite, get a swing, bring his feet up and kick off, twist and grab the other rail--

And he'd done it. He swung over the rail to Sam's calls of, "Show off!" and leaned back against the wall, where they wouldn't be able to see him until they'd come up another level. _Why_ had he done it? There was no filter between thinking and doing. It was like his life before being a mercenary and working for SHIELD, both of which had beaten into him the need for thinking before acting. 

Then Sam and Steve could see him, and he put on a brave face. They didn't need to know it was unplanned. Just like the elevator had been. Just like the leap out of the car. Just like hoarding food. 

Shit.

**

He was quiet more than anything, so when Bucky spoke Natasha listened.

"Who did this to you?"

She glanced at him, keeping the touch of her gaze quick and seemingly unimportant, while mentally cataloging everything. His pupils were currently average sized; when he started to disappear into his programing they always grew. His gaze was mostly on her, which was an improvement. He'd relaxed in his bonds, but she didn't know if that was good or bad. Growing used to being around her, or so used to being restricted that it was a more comfortable way of life? She suspected both. 

"Russians," she said. She continued looking through junk mail, tidily clipping out coupons she didn't need, and watched him with her peripheral vision. He was waiting. Something about the set of his shoulders made her think he was looking for validity. She took a breath. "It was called the Red Room. They trained assassins. They started training me when I was a child." 

She looked at him again, and cursed herself in her mother language. She knew what he needed, because once upon a time she'd needed it, too. Steve needed the best of her, to pretend like she was a good person so he could trust her. Barnes, though, he needed the worst of her. To know he wasn't the only one, that a lifetime of horror didn't mean life was over, to know that at least one person in the world understood what he'd done. 

Natasha faced him, crossing her legs and propping her elbow on the table. "I killed people. Ruined people. Children, the helpless, it didn't matter. If they needed a hero taken down, they sent me."

"They were protecting their country," he said, but there was a question nearly buried in his eyes.

Nat shook her head and didn't release his gaze. "They were destroying others. They were sending personal messages."

He thought about that. Then, "Why did you do it?"

She rewarded him with a little smile. "Because they told me to. For no other reason." 

He nodded slowly, as if absorbing that, matching it to his own experiences, and seeing the hard, ugly truth. Truth most others would never grasp. 

Saying it out loud, some part of her grieved. But it was useful, and she was good at boxing up her own desires in favor of what was useful.

He blinked twice, winced, and his pupils blew wide. He went unnaturally still. His breath made his ribs expand and fall, but otherwise he was dead. 

Nat went back to her mail.

**

Okay, so no one had been following them. No one recognized the photo of Bucky, either, which was good. Not that Clint thought anything would happen even if they confirmed he'd been at the campsite; he wasn't there any longer.

He squinted at his dinner plate to bring the food into focus, then almost wished he hadn't. "Jesus, Steve, what's _in_ this?"

"If you don't like the grub," Steve said with irritation he was obviously trying to mask, "don't eat it."

"Better than rations." Sam poked at it. "But probably not as healthy."

"I ate grubs once, when I was stranded in the middle of nowhere." Clint decided that bringing the food into focus wasn't worth it. "I'm thinking that was more nutritious." His omnipresent headache worsened every time he tried to squint the world into being. 

"I'll have you know," Steve said, "this was practically a delicacy back home."

"It was the Great Depression," Sam pointed out. " _Food_ was a delicacy." He pushed his plate away. "I'm gonna make a sandwich. Clint?"

Clint knew that food was, as Sam had put it, no longer a delicacy. He told himself to dump it and eat a sandwich. That he wasn't going to stop getting fed just because he didn't finish a meal. That there would be more food, later, and so he didn't have to gorge himself now. 

He ordered himself to leave it be, as he ate several bites. "No," he said through a mouthful. "I'm fine." 

"Do you even believe in vegetables, Steve?" Sam asked from the kitchen.

Steve, laughing, spread his hands. "There are peas in here! Look, right there!"

"God," Clint muttered, "I hate peas." He took another bite. 

"Now, how do I do all the KP and still get harassed for it?"

Clint spoke through food. "Us young'uns have no manners." 

Sam sat back down with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "When he was a solider, he had to march uphill, in six feet of snow, both ways!"

Clint poked his fork at Sam's plate. "What were you just saying about needing veggies? Is that avocado bread?"

Sam batted his fork away. "Okay, first off, avocado isn't a vegetable, it's a fruit. Second off..." He smiled and shook his head. "I got nothing." 

Clint ate while Steve defended cream o' soup meals. The neighbor was outside; Clint watched him through the window, attention suddenly absorbed. The neighbor hadn't been out once since Clint had gotten there. Could be a plant. Could be that the actual neighbor was dead, and they'd put in this guy to keep tabs. It would explain why he was suddenly there, when he hadn't been before.

"Hey," Clint said, breaking into the repartee. "Who's that?"

Sam glanced out the window, then smiled and waved. "Eddie. My neighbor."

"Huh." Clint glared at him, eating more casserole. His headache throbbed, and he rubbed the back of his skull with force, trying to at least shift the pain. 

There was something in his head. _There was something in his head._ He remembered gouging at it in the car. He'd thought it was a mole or a skin tag, but now he knew -- he _knew_ \-- that there was something in his head. They were probably keeping tabs on him. Tracking his every move and conversation.

"Shit," he hissed, and leaped up from the table. Both men looked at him, confused. He stared clawing at his skull, realized he was still holding a fork, and used the tines to dig in.

"Whoa!" Sam said, bolting to his feet and grabbing for Clint's wrist.

"Clint!" Steve stepped behind him and grabbed both wrists, wresting the fork from his grip. "What's wrong?"

"It's in my head!" he shouted. "They've got a thing in my head!"

"Okay, okay," Steve soothed, forcing him toward the kitchen table. "Let me look. Just give me a minute. Let me look."

Clint slapped his hands down on either side of his plate, staring at the brown slag that was dinner. Sam spoke to him quietly, one hand on his back while Steve's hands parted his hair, searching.

"I don't see anything," Steve said at last.

" _It's in there,_ " Clint snarled. Noise made his head pound.

Steve pressed, apologizing softly when he had to touch around the area Clint had tried to carve out. "Clint," he said at last, "I only feel your skull." 

Clint snatched at the fork again, and again Steve took it away. "We can get x-rays--" Steve began, but Clint cut him off.

"No! No hospitals! They're at the hospitals." He straightened, feeling at his skull himself. He couldn't tell, beyond the blood, if there was anything there. But there had to be. He'd felt it. Hadn't he?

"Who's at the hospitals?" Steve asked. He was searching Clint's face, worried and intent. 

"HYDRA. SHIELD. They're all at the hospitals! Don't you get it? They infiltrate everywhere. Including my damned skull!"

Sam grabbed him, turned him, shifting to grip his head with one hand on either side of his face. "Take a breath."

Jesus, he was panicking. What was _wrong_ with him?

"When did they put it in you?" Sam asked slowly, holding eye contact.

Clint tried to think back. "I don't know. Maybe... maybe after Loki."

"Loki?" 

Steve cut in from behind, "It doesn't matter," but Clint was already talking. 

"When he took over my mind. After that, there were so many hospitals." He needed Sam to understand. He needed that. "It's not paranoia if you're right!"

"Okay," Sam said calmly. "We're going to check out your head again without taking you to a hospital. Turn around. Let me see."

Clint turned, and stared at Captain America who was looking at him with concern. He looked kind of intimidating, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, frowning down at Clint. Not that he was upset at Clint, that was obvious, but that he was upset at this idea. 

"I don't see anything," Sam said after a time. "Clint, what were the medications for?" 

He closed his eyes tight. It didn't help his headache, but it helped ease his eyestrain. "It doesn't matter."

"It might," Steve said, sounding all compassionate and shit. "What were the meds for?" 

He twisted his hands into fists. "Impulse control and paranoia." He snapped his eyes open. "But I'm not paranoid. I'm not!" He shoved Steve, hard. It was like shoving a wall, though Steve had the grace to take a step back. 

"But impulse control is clearly an issue if you're hitting Captain America," Sam said dryly. "So, maybe, paranoia is too?"

"Fuck you." Clint twisted to snarl at Sam. "It's not paranoia if you're right!"

"There's nothing in your head, and my neighbor is just my neighbor," Sam said.

Clint went to strike him, too, but Steve caught his wrist. He yanked it free, glaring, and then stalked toward the living room. 

"Clint--"

"I need to check something," he barked over his shoulder. 

The device, whatever it was, was still where he'd left it tucked into the pocket of his Hello Kitty bag. Good. That was good. He felt along his skull, searching himself for any kind of bump or bulge. There wasn't one. He had to admit that after several minutes of searching. He rubbed his eyes, and pressed his hands to his temples. Fucking headache.

"Clint?" Sam asked from nearby.

"Fuck off," Clint muttered. 

Sam ignored him. "The headaches...?"

"Withdrawal." The trouble focusing, too. Fucking withdrawal. 

Steve, then. "We're going to fix this."

Clint swore again, under his breath. "I need to shower." He could still feel Loki's touch in his mind.

**

Barnes spoke from the corner, catching Nat's attention. "Maybe I have Stockholm Syndrome and that's the only reason I let you keep me here." 

Nat glanced at him with a small, approving smile. He was still thinking. She liked that. "Where did you learn about Stockholm Syndrome?" It was definitely younger than World War II.

He watched her without speaking. Without the mask, without the mind fuckery that made him so flat, he was an open book. His face was mobile, blue eyes expressive. She could see his mind race, trying to locate the origin of his knowledge. Fear and vulnerability flashed in his eyes when he couldn't. There was something wounded there, something broken and confused and horrified. She remembered that feeling, even if she'd never been an open book. 

God, she did not know what she was going to do with him. The smart thing would be to hand him over to Steve, and let Steve take over. If she didn't hand him over to Steve, he might break loose and kill her. That was a very real danger, though he'd been acting like a kitten. 

If she didn't turn him over to Steve, it would be a betrayal. With all Steve could learn about her now, she didn't want that added to it. If she had any hope of keeping him as an asset (a friend, her mind whispered, but she was in the wrong line of work for friends), she needed to tell him she had Bucky.

Instead Barnes was still here. She was hand feeding him, like a feral dog she could tame. 

"It doesn't matter," he said in response to her earlier question. Then he asked one of his own. "Does Steve know what you did?" He said the name as if it was alien.

She considered her answer and cast aside the evasion she would have given Steve. "No. I haven't told him. I don't have a history with him." It was as close as she would come to an excuse. She shrugged, unable to say any more. She didn't speak of her life before SHIELD. Of course, now that everything was out, anyone could know about her life. She didn't have to speak of it. 

She wondered if people had gone looking, yet. Steve did love the Internet. 

Barnes lost his focus, and said rapidly, "I remember Steve. He'd come over once a week for dinner. Standing invite, before the war. He'd eat as much meat as we could afford to give him, because the rest of the time he was standing in food lines and subsisting on onion soup. He--" Then Barnes seemed to come to himself, and his expression fell. It was gone, Nat knew. 

"What's onion soup?" she asked to distract him.

He looked at her like she was a little dumb. "Water and onions." He added, as if unaware he remembered it, "If someone on their floor could catch a pigeon, they'd all share it. A little meat for the onion soup."

That memory, Nat thought, was a very good sign. Also disgusting. Not that she hadn't survived on worse, but... "City pigeons today are considered toxic and unsafe to eat."

Barnes looked horrified. "What have you people _done_ to our world?"

"Not me." Nat smiled a little, holding up her hands in the universal sign of peace. "I was in Russia. The USSR," she clarified. "It became various countries, the biggest one being Russia, in 1991." 

He started to say something, then winced. The wince turned to a grimace, and he pressed his forehead against the wall. "God," he ground out. "They made me _do things_. I get these flashes, like blood on my boots -- they just told me to jump and I--"

"Jumped," Nat finished for him, her tone dead. "You didn't know and you didn't care if it was the right thing to do."

He looked at her, rolling his head so she was in view but not taking his skull away from the wall. "I wanted to help people. How could they make me do something so awful?"

She had no answer for him. She hadn't wanted to help people. They'd told her to jump, and it didn't matter which side she landed on. Until Clint. She could be Barnes' Clint. "They took away your mind. You had no choice, even when you thought you did."

He looked at her as if praying she was telling the truth. 

The phone rang.

Nat glanced at it quickly, caught Steve's number, and frowned. "I have to take this," she said, and picked up the phone. "Steve."

Barnes paled and shook his head slightly, the wariness in his expression clear: don't tell Steve.

She shook her head back, a silent promise.

"Nat, have you heard from Clint?" 

That caught her attention. "What? What do you mean?"

"He had an," Steve's pause was too long. "Episode tonight. Do you know what he was on medication for?"

"Yes," she said simply.

"Well, he ran out of it a few days ago. He thinks he's got a device in his skull and tried to tear it out. Could SHIELD put something inside him?"

She considered it, had to admit it, and said, "They could. I don't think they _did_ , but they could."

"Well, he went to take a shower. When an hour went by, we checked on him and... he's gone. Do you have any idea where he'd go?"

"A safe house," she said immediately.

"He said they're all busted."

She thought hard. Clint Barton was nothing if not resourceful and good at disappearing. But -- "A mobile safe house. I might know where he is."

She hung up and looked at Barnes, who was looking at her. "I have to go," she said. "Will you be all right here?"

"Got my piss pan and bucket of water. All I need is an doggie ID tag and I'm good."

She gifted him with a distracted smile. "I'll see what I can do." 

**


	5. Chapter 5

Clint sat on the curb with his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling between them. He wasn't surprised when Nat pulled up in her car, easing slowly to a stop. She rolled down the passenger side window and looked at him.

"I'd have expected you to be long gone by now," she said.

He gestured to the empty parking spot. "Someone stole my safe car. Along with all the money and IDs stashed in the doors." 

She looked sympathetic.

He nodded, losing focus. Just letting his eyes do what they wanted to do: relax. 

"Why don't you get in, Barton." It wasn't really a request, but it was kind anyway.

He got up and slid into Nat's car. "It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you," he muttered.

She pulled smoothly away. "No, it's not. And they're probably out to get you. But they aren't after you right now."

He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window, hoping it would ease the ache. "I had to go. The neighbor was freaking me out. I've been in one place for too long. Maybe they _are_ tracking my laptop." 

Nat didn't say anything. They sat in comfortable silence, and Clint appreciated her ability to listen without passing judgment. 

Streetlamps rolled by outside. Pools of too-revealing light, shadows between. 

"Will you check my head for bugs?"

"Of course." She said it defensively, as if offended he even had to ask. "But we're going back to Sam's place. I can't think of anywhere safer than next to Captain America if they are after you. Can you?"

That was a no brainer, so he didn't respond. The streets looked damp. Sprinklers sputtered on nearby. "I stole Sam's wallet," he said after a minute.

"He noticed that."

"It was just sitting there, in a change bowl in the kitchen. I don't even know _why_ I took it." He huffed out frustration. "I took his hoodie, too," he muttered.

"He noticed that as well." She clicked on her blinker, being fastidious about rules when she normally wasn't, and turned. Red light shone over the dashboard from the streetlight above, and was gone. 

"And a yo-yo from his bedroom."

Nat was quiet for a beat. Then, "Why a yo-yo?"

"What? Yo-yos are _awesome_. Did you ever play with a yo-yo?"

She slanted him a dubious look.

"I can do tricks like a boss." Quiet settled. Clint asked, "Did he notice the yo-yo, too?"

"Not that he mentioned." 

Clint pondered that. Then, "I'll give it back anyway."

"Selfless of you." Clint couldn't tell if Nat's tone was serious or deadpan. 

She turned right. Went two blocks. Got onto the freeway and sped up slowly. Kept it to the speed limit, though, instead of thirty above like she was wont to do. 

Clint slumped lower and put his feet on the dashboard, his knees near his chest. "Sam's a nice guy," he said miserably. "He doesn't deserve this."

"And Steve does?" Nat asked.

Clint glared at her. "You're supposed to say, 'This isn't bad,' or something like that."

She shrugged. But he could see the little smile playing around her lips, the way her eyes twinkled. He snorted and looked out the window again. He needed to change the subject. "Speaking of Steve, how's your little project going?"

Her face blanked. "Fine. Barnes is safe." 

Barnes would be safe anywhere. He was a killing machine. "And the people around him?" Clint asked dryly.

He could see it in the way she gave her little shrug; that tip of the head, right there. He sat up, twisting to face her. "Nat, what did you do?"

She looked at him, startled. "Nothing."

But her expression was _too_ wounded. "Don't lie to me."

She brought her eyebrows down: concern for his mental state. But it was too perfect. 

"Natasha, you're the one who taught me that look. What's going on with Barnes?"

She dropped the act and looked out the windshield, clearly annoyed. "He's fine. Just leave it at that, Clint."

"Natasha."

" _Barton_." And that was as much warning as he'd get. 

**

Sam knew he should have followed his instincts. Of course, his instincts said Clint would be a problem, but they didn't actually tell him what to do about that problem. 

He tucked his bedsheets into military corners, sharp and precise, then looked around his room once more. Sam was pretty sure he'd removed anything obviously dangerous, though he figured someone with Clint's training could make anything dangerous. Mostly, he didn't want to come in to find Clint had taken a knife to the back of his own head. 

"They're back," Steve called from the living room, where he was making Sam a bed on the couch. 

Sam let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, down deep in the bottom of his lungs. He took one last look around the bedroom, then went out and downstairs. He pulled aside the curtain in the front window and peered into the drive. Natasha and Clint sat in her sleek black sports car, the engine off, talking. He couldn't make out words, but he'd been pretty good at reading lips for a while there. 

_\--before, when you_ something something _this? It's just like that. Run it past Steve._ Something something _if it's true._

Clint wasn't looking at her. He was looking at his boots, propped on the dash. _He's not an agent. He won't know_ \-- Because Sam was watching Clint so closely, he didn't catch what Nat interrupted with. But he did catch the fleeting look of misery on Clint's face, rapidly hidden. He suspected he was seeing more emotion than Clint usually let show. Certainly more than the mask of bravado he'd been wearing while here.

Nat was still talking. -- _Commandos, and Sam_ something _rescue ops. I'm sure they can_ something something _dangerous or not._

Clint's head fell back against the headrest. He looked toward the visor, but didn't seem to be noticing anything. When he remained silent, Nat prodded him. Whatever she said Sam lost, but Clint nodded. _All right._

Nat reached over and put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing briefly. He looked toward her in acknowledgment, and then they were both getting out of the car. By the time Clint closed the door, he looked calm and self assure, like he and Nat had just gone for drinks somewhere and were arriving home.

Not at all like he'd freaked out, stolen a bunch of stuff, escaped from a house that wasn't trying to keep him trapped, and gone on the run after trying to dig a nonexistent tracking device out of his head. 

This was way above Sam's pay grade. He headed into the living room.

Steve was looking studiously normal, flipping through a gun magazine at much too fast a speed to actually be reading it. 

Nat walked in without knocking. "Hey, hey, boys," she said, in that throaty, subconsciously sexual way she had. As if everything she did was designed to make men's brains short circuit. 

Steve leaped to his feet. Then he stood, silent, as if he'd been about to say "You found him!" and realized that might be tactless.

"Hey," Clint said with complete nonchalance, hands tucked in his pockets. "Borrowed your hoodie," he said to Sam, and pulled a hand out of his pocket. He slapped Sam's wallet into Sam's palm. "And your wallet. Sorry about that." Then he moseyed into the kitchen as if nothing was wrong. He came out a moment later holding the carton of orange juice, and no glass. "Sam, can you tell this woman how awesome a yo-yo is? Don't let me down here, buddy."

"Of course yo-yos are awesome," Sam agreed. He tucked his wallet in his back pocket and rocked on his heels. 

"I could do a lot of yo-yo tricks when I was younger," Steve piped in. 

Clint looked at Nat, chugged OJ, and said, "See?"

She rolled her eyes and stole the carton from him, sipping from the spout herself. 

"Do none of you have any manners?" Sam protested, but at this point, given it was a losing battle, he had to smile. 

Clint had pulled a very familiar yo-yo out of his pocket, and tossed it at Steve. "Let's see it, big guy." 

Steve caught it easily, while Sam backed up a few steps to give him room. "Here, wait," Sam said, grabbing the coffee table and pulling it aside. Nat was still holding the carton of orange juice, sipping and watching them with a look of tolerant amusement. 

Steve gave the yo-yo a few experimental tosses, down and back, out front and back. "Okay," he said. "But it's been a while." A look of cheerful concentration came over his face, and he managed to spin it out and put it to sleep at the end of the string, popped it back up, and sent it out again to let it walk along the floor. 

"Darn," Steve laughed when it snapped up before he was ready, and he tried it again. That time he got it just right, and Clint applauded. 

"Man could'a been in a carnival," Clint said, slouching back against the entertainment center, shoulders hunching as he braced his hands on one of the shelves. He crossed his legs at the ankles, the very picture of someone not struggling with paranoia and impulse control. 

"Okay, my turn," Sam said, gleeful to show off the few tricks he knew. He didn't walk the dog; Steve had done that semi-successfully, and it didn't seem fair to show him up. Instead, Sam sent the yo-yo out, made a triangle with the string, and let the yo-yo swing through it. Then he decided on another trick and brought it back in. This time he flipped it out sideways, stuck his finger out to catch the string so the yo-yo looped over and sat itself on its own string, taut between Sam's fingers. He disengaged it, sent it flying over his hand and caught the string again, flipping the yo-yo once more so it perched on its own string again. The yo-yo spun on, perfectly balanced, like a man on a tight rope.

"That's pretty neat," Steve said, grinning and nodding.

Clint applauded again.

"Okay, hotshot," Sam said, noting how Clint didn't look overly impressed. "You do it."

It really was a mistake, he realized almost right away. Clint whipped that sucker around and over, snagging the string with his fingers only to send the yo-yo off in another direction, shortening the string and whipping it around his head and shoulders like a nunchuck, bringing it in suddenly to let it hover parallel to the ground, defying gravity, before he snapped it back in. He looked utterly smug. 

"Cheat," Nat said dryly.

"Am not," Clint laughed. Then he relaxed, as if giving in. "I ran a little... business. Did fancy stuff, roped in the natives, taught them easy tricks for money. Sometimes, if there was time, I'd bugger off and run a little show of my own for tips." The whole while he was making picture tricks with the yo-yo; rocking the baby, one handed star to two-handed star, the Eiffel Tower, the butterfly. 

"Damn," Sam said, crossing his arms and watching. "Sounds like a good gig for a kid."

Clint shrugged. He zipped the yo-yo back up and offered it to Sam.

"No, man. You keep it. Looks like it's found a good home." And maybe keeping his hands busy would help him manage everything else.

"I need to get going, Clint," Nat said. "If you want me to check your head, take a seat."

Clint looped the yo-yo around his fingers and settled on the floor in front of the chair. "Aw," he said, spying the couch. "You guys made me a bed."

"We went one better than that, we made _me_ a bed and you get the bedroom. Thought privacy might be good," Sam said. 

Clint glanced away as if suddenly self-conscious, then back. "Thanks," he said simply. 

"Make sure you run diagnostics on that computer," Nat said, beginning a very slow, thorough search through Clint's hair. "I wouldn't put it past SHIELD to have bugged you, much less it. Have you checked your boots? Your gear?"

"My clothes," Clint said. "I didn't think about the rest." 

Sam wondered if Nat had just single handedly made Clint's paranoia worse, as Steve handed the Hello Kitty suitcase to Clint, and the two of them started going through the gear within. 

"This look familiar to you?" Clint asked, fishing a small rectangle with gears on the corners out.

Nat barely glanced at it. Sam crouched, peering. "What is it?" he asked.

Clint shrugged. Nat thunked him to keep him still. Clint thought for a long while, then chose his words with care. "I was supposed to be escorting it to a SHIELD facility. It's some sort of machine, but I have no idea what it does or how to use it." 

"Whatever it is," Nat said blandly, "don't push any red buttons." 

"Gosh, there go my plans for the evening," Clint quipped back. 

They went though Clint's things while Nat searched his head and neck. "I think you're clean," she decided at last, putting her hands on his shoulders. She leaned down, her cheek against his head for a moment as she looked at Steve. "Take care of him."

"You know I will," Steve promised.

Clint sighed. "I'm sitting right here, and I'm not a puppy." 

Nat kept her cheek against his head. "Trust Steve. He's the trustworthy sort. Even I trust him. If he says things are all right..."

"They're all right." Clint words were dry, a little mocking, but Sam guessed there was truth and vulnerability under the mask. Clint, he thought, was nearly as good an actor as Nat was. 

"All right, boys." Nat stood, gave Steve another look, and headed toward the door. "Don't stay up too late." 

Given it was the wee hours of the morning, that was a futile statement. 

**

Nat was exhausted. It took a lot to bring her to exhaustion, but she was there. Which was probably why she didn't realize there was a problem until after she opened her apartment door.

A man with a metal arm, a man who wasn't Barnes but was every inch the Winter Solider, watched her blankly from fifteen feet away. One cuff was still on the wall. The other was still on his ankle. Somehow, though, he'd gotten free. He stood with a loose limbed readiness, head tipped so his hair hid half his face. 

"Bucky," Natasha said quietly, looking for a flicker of recognition. 

Gray-blue eyes tracked her. 

"I've just been to see Steve." Nat closed the door and inched along the wall, aiming for the taser tucked in the end table. She could bolt out the front door, she was close enough still, but she couldn't leave him in the apartment like this. Not when he could kill anyone he liked. "You remember Steve?"

The Winter Solider tipped his head the other way. The stubble on his face was a beard, now. It was as effective a mask as his muzzle had been. 

"I didn't tell him about you, like you asked, but he's still looking. He's worried about you." The drawer was nearly within reach. 

The Solider came at her, moving like mercury across the floor, there before she could finish yanking the drawer open. A warm, flesh hand knotted in her hair, snapping her away from the taser. Warm metal fingers clamped around her throat, and lifted. 

The ligaments in her throat stretched. Her spine popped. She grabbed hold of his wrist, trying to take the weight off her neck, keeping panic at bay by force of will. Her toes came off the floor. 

He looked at her curiously, as if watching her choke was all he'd been after. As if it answered a question he hadn't asked. 

Nat ran through options in her head. She had plenty of time -- at least five minutes before the loss of oxygen sent her spiraling into unconsciousness. 

Then he blinked, and blue-gray eyes filled with horror. He dropped her, and she landed lightly on her feet, vaulting sideways before he could grab her again. 

"Nat," he said, tracking her, his breath coming short and fast. "Are you -- oh, God, I didn't mean--"

She yanked the tranq gun from under the counter and shot him. He looked almost relieved as he staggered back and melted against the wall. 

**

When he woke, he knew only a few minutes had passed. His flesh hand tingled unpleasantly, and a quick tug proved it to be tied -- tightly -- and in such a way around beams in the wall and ceiling that any attempt to free it snugged a rope around his neck. It was smart, he had to give her that. And clearly she was resourceful. She'd pounded holes in the drywall to get at those beams. 

His ankle was, once again, magneted to his metal arm. 

"Nat?" he called. His voice was hoarse.

She came around the corner, holding a cup of tea in both hands. She was alive. He relaxed. She wore loose sleeping pants and a t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a short pony tail. 

"You okay?"

She gave a little shrug. "I'm all right. You have any idea what happened?"

She wasn't all right, though. He could see bruises already purpling around her throat, and her voice was rough. He'd nearly killed her. "I don't. I remember being against the wall, and then..." He searched his memory, but couldn't find anything. Only a blank until he'd seen her, lifted off the floor and dangling like a ragdoll from his metal arm. 

If he could hurt Nat, whom he'd come to like and even trust, what else could he do? 

"Put me down," he said quietly. If anyone could kill him, she could.

Her lips tightened. "I know someone who can keep you from hurting anyone. And together, we'll find a way to make this better."

He didn't believe her.

She read it on his face, he knew. She gave him a sad smile, just one half of her mouth tightening and curling all at once, and said, "Steve."

Bucky closed his eyes against the thought. Steve, who brought up such a sick feeling of familiarity and confusion, Steve who Bucky remembered in flashes from a time past when things were better, Steve who, Bucky somewhere knew without remembering, wouldn't forgive atrocities. How could Steve possibly understand? 

"Bucky," Nat said, and he realized it was the first time she'd called him that. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She was crouching, ten feet from him, and her gaze was like a trap that wouldn't let him go. "Trust me." 

God help him, he did.

**

Clint leaned against the shower wall, letting the spray wash over him as if it could wash away the paranoia, the impulse control problems, the withdrawal headache, the throb from digging into his own scalp, the blurry vision.

The sense that nothing was ever going to be normal again, after what Loki had done, after SHIELD had fallen and taken his meds -- which were _finally_ working -- with it. There was a chasm below him, and the dirt he was hanging onto with aching fingers was crumbling. 

Someone knocked at the bathroom door. "Clint?" Sam called. "You still in there?"

He forced a lightness into his tone he didn't feel. "Haven't bolted yet." 

"Leave some hot water for the rest of us, princess." 

A tired smile worked across his face. "Don't worry. I know you're too delicate for cold showers." 

At least, other than keeping tabs on him, Sam and Steve were treating him almost normally. He hadn't expected that. 

The water didn't wash away the slime he felt inside his head. Eventually, he shut it off, toweled himself dry, scrubbed terrycloth through his short hair, and donned the clothes Sam had loaned him. Maybe he really did need to go to Sears. God, that was an awful thought. Everything he had was gone. They'd trashed his clothes, unsure if HYDRA/SHIELD had bugged them somehow. They couldn't check cloth well enough to make Clint stop feeling paranoid.

When he stepped out of the bathroom Sam was sitting on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table. "Look at you," Sam said. "All pink and squishy like a little white baby."

Clint snorted. "Where's Steve?"

"Nat called him, and he went running. How's your head wound?"

Clint brushed his fingers over his wet hair. They came away pink. "Shit. I need a really big band aid." He headed back into the bathroom for gauze. 

The sofa creaked, and Sam appeared behind him, visible in the mirror. "Medicine cabinet," he said, reaching over Clint's head to open it. Rolls of gauze were stacked with hydrogen peroxide, tape, iodine, butterfly bandages, small scissors -- everything you might need in a home first aid cabinet. Clint moved slightly and let Sam pick things out. 

"You're getting blood on my shirt." Sam dabbed at the back of Clint's neck, rubbed at the hemline of the T-shirt Clint wore, and shook his head sadly. 

"Sorry."

Sam met his gaze briefly in the mirror, offering a teasing smile. "I try and give you nice things, but..." 

Clint snorted. The shirt had bleach stains on the front. 

Focusing was too hard. He closed his eyes, hoping it would alleviate the headache as well. Sam snipped gauze and pressed it gently against the base of Clint's skull. Clint heard the rip of medical tape, and felt it applied to his head. 

"Good thing you keep your hair short," Sam commented.

Clint opened his eyes. "I oughta just shave it off, given how often I've been getting head wounds lately." 

Sam grinned and rubbed a hand over his own crew cut. "It makes showering easier, too." 

"Yeah, 'cause it takes me forty-five minutes to condition my hair." 

"Is that what you're doing in there? I figured you were just having problems jacking off."

Clint laughed. It felt a bit like breaking. It must have shown, too, because Sam put a hand on his shoulder, watching him in the mirror. 

"When was the last time you slept?" Sam asked seriously.

"Shit." Clint rubbed his eyes. He didn't even know. He ducked out of the bathroom, shedding Sam's hand. 

"If I promise to stay up, will you take one of your sleeping pills?"

"How do I know you're not in on the whole scheme?" Clint shot over his shoulder, heading into the kitchen. He was basically subsisting on orange juice at this point, but he didn't care. He pulled it out of the fridge and drank it from the carton.

"What scheme? Never mind. I could call Steve back."

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, looking at Sam. Fuck, the guy looked so _nice_ and _earnest_. "How do I know you won't just fall asleep once I'm out?"

"You can set up a monitor," Sam said, smiling. "Check it in the morning. Beat me up if I fell asleep." 

Clint took another swig of OJ. Sleep sounded nice. "Okay," he said finally. "But I'm not sleeping in the bedroom."

"All right," Sam agreed. "I'll sit on the chair. You sleep on the couch. Mind if I watch TV?"

Clint shrugged. He'd sleep lightly, sleeping pill or no. Television wouldn't matter. 

This was terrifying.

**

Nat had donned a sleeveless zip-up shirt with a collar that came high enough to cover the bruising around her throat. The grateful look Barnes shot her before she left nearly made her bleed. 

She had told Steve to meet her at the bar around the corner, but she got there first. She loitered outside and gave johns dangerous looks when they propositioned her. When Steve arrived, she inclined her head for him to follow, and started walking. 

Even in his civilian clothes, he drew attention. Like a spark of purity in an otherwise dim world. Nat's world was all shadows, shades of gray, never black and white but rather bad and less bad. She'd learned early on she wasn't going to get a beacon of light.

Then she'd met Steve, who never seemed to notice the shadows that she lived in. Whenever he realized she'd dipped her toes there, he became disappointed. Steve's disappointment was weight she couldn't live with, but a pressure she couldn't avoid.

Learning she'd had Barnes for thirty-six hours and hadn't told him would earn disappointment. He thought she was his friend, but someday he'd learn more about her -- if he hadn't already -- and that light would shut itself off. Go shine on someone else's dark and shady shore. 

Maybe Bucky's. Bucky, who'd done things as bad as she had, and would get a free pass because he had history with Steve. The thought made anger flush through her stomach. Her history with Steve was built from half-told stories and truths too dark to be spoken. Buoyed by irrational anger, she spoke.

"I have Barnes." 

Steve turned to her, catching her shoulder in one big hand and spinning her to face him. "What? Where? Is he all right?" He looked relieved. Happy. The truth hadn't dawned on him yet. 

She extricated herself carefully. "Steve, I want you to listen to me." She started walking again, knowing he'd follow. "His memories are scattered. He slips back and forth from Barnes to the Winter Solider, murderous and following orders. He is not safe." 

She took a breath into Steve's silence and turned to face him. A lamppost splashed a halo of grimy light around them. "He doesn't want to see you. I don't know why. But he's dangerous, and I can't hold him by myself." Barnes' face flashed before her eyes: vulnerable and horrified, blue-gray eyes watching her with something akin to hope. "Don't push him." 

Steve had pulled himself together while she spoke. He stood straight now, braced for the worst. He nodded. "Do you know... why he doesn't want to see me?"

Lord save her from vulnerable men. "You'll have to ask him." Because Steve was too bright, she didn't say. Because she and Barnes, they lived in the shadows, and when Steve looked at them with all those expectations, assumptions, _trust_ , it was impossible not to burn. 

She led the way to the apartment.

**

Steve didn't know what to do as he followed Nat up the stairs. It was a large, nondescript place, in a shady part of town. He didn't like to think of any unattached women living here, even ones as obviously capable as Nat, because being capable wouldn't stop the catcalls and unwanted lecherous glances. That had to do something to a person, being constantly harassed like that. 

"How long have you lived here?" he asked, to take his mind off what he was about to see. Who he was about to meet. He'd called Sam from the stairwell, briefed him on what was going on and that he likely wouldn't be back that night. 

"A week. The landlord took cash down for two months' rent and furniture, which I needed after the HYDRA debacle." She unlocked the door and walked into the apartment. "Not that I'll get my deposit back." 

Steve stopped, inhaling sharply. Bucky was on the floor on his stomach, his metal arm behind him and attached to his opposite ankle. Steve recognized those restraints, and gave Nat one hard look, hurt that she'd even had them. Bucky's other arm was stretched to one side, the rope looping around a four by four in the wall, then up to the ceiling and another four by four, and finally back down, tied around his throat. 

"Looks like you handled him just fine," Steve said tightly, striding across the floor toward his friend. His friend whom he'd thought dead, and then lost. The last real touch he had with his entire life before being frozen. 

"Don't--" Bucky said, and it was Bucky's voice, Bucky's eyes above all that beard. But Bucky had never liked facial hair, and the way he looked at Steve -- one part fear and the rest of him wary and defensive -- wasn't the Bucky Steve remembered. 

Sickness boiled in Steve's stomach. He slowed at the single, frightened word, not sure how to proceed. He wanted so badly to have his friend back, and his heart swelled with hope and broke with horror all at once. He approached carefully, tugging the knees of his pants to give himself room as he knelt. "It's okay, Buck," he murmured. "We're gonna fix this." First, by getting rid of the bonds that made Bucky look like a trussed animal. He reached to start untying the knot around Bucky's throat, but yanked his hand back with surprise when Bucky tried to bite him.

"Don't be stupid, Captain," Bucky snarled. "She didn't tell you, did she? That I nearly killed her earlier tonight. There are others in this building. I'd kill them without thinking twice, to take you down." 

Steve's hands hovered just out of bite range. Indecision kept him from moving forward or back while he tried to push the hurt aside. "Bucky, it's only me." 

Nat's voice from the doorway was exasperated. "He doesn't remember you, Steve. Not like you remember him." 

Her voice gave Steve the little bit of anger he needed. He bulled on. "You know me. We were best pals." 

Bucky's face was as familiar as his own hands, but the cocky, self-sure attitude was gone. The man before him looked broken. Steve laid down on his stomach, scooting sideways until he and Bucky could look each other eye to eye, cheeks on the floor. Gray eyes were so familiar and so distant. Steve wanted to smooth away the pain, but kept his hands still. 

"I remember a mark I couldn't kill," Bucky said quietly. 

It felt like his last thread with his entire past was unraveling. Steve took a deep breath. "I remember a guy who came to dinner every month, but brought more food than he ate."

"I remember shooting at you."

Steve paused to make sure his voice was steady and offered a little smile and a better memory. "I remember you yelling at me when you had to break up the fight behind the soda shop between me and Hardy, and Hardy nailed you in the face. It was the day before your big date with Midge, and you were hoppin' mad."

Bucky's eyes closed as if he was in pain. "Stop."

Steve inched a little closer, until he could smell Bucky. The grape smell of infection, the sour of an unwashed body, the metal of his arm. "I remember watching my best friend fall, and thinking he was dead. But you weren't dead."

"I was," Bucky shot back, his eyes opening suddenly. They were hard and unforgiving. "Your friend died that day. They made me this, they _changed_ me, my body and my mind, and your friend is _gone_. The sooner you get that, the better."

Steve shook his head slowly, pressing his cheek harder into the floor. "My friend is right here. Changed by the years, and maybe a little different, but he's right here. I see him now." It had to be true.

"Don't you get it?" Bucky yelled, lunging forward the inch and a half the rope would allow. "I don't remember you! I'm not the nice guy you knew! They made me -- I did horrible things, and I didn't even ask why!"

"You stepped into the war one way," Steve said calmly, holding onto his shreds of strength. "And you stepped out this way. I don't see any difference from any other solider." 

"Then you're stupid," Bucky lashed out.

Steve hid his flinch. "Maybe I am," he said, "but I'm not letting you go." 

**


	6. Chapter 6

Sam had silenced his phone so Clint would keep sleeping, but when the face lit up with Steve's number, he answered it quickly, moving to the kitchen. "Hey."

"I'll be staying the night at Nat's place." Steve sounded weary. "Bucky's here." 

Sam caught his breath. "And?"

Silence drew out between them. "I don't know," Steve said at last. "Look, I need to go. I'll keep you posted."

"Sure, yeah," Sam said. They said their goodbyes and hung up. Sam lingered in the kitchen doorway, watching Clint sleep. 

It had taken hours for Clint to fall into anything deeper than a light doze, and even then he kept waking up. 5 mg of temazapam would put most people out for a solid night, but not Clint. Clint was on 15mg, and jerked awake frequently. 

Now he was dreaming. He kept twitching and settling again, and Sam couldn't tell if it was a good dream or a bad one. When he began muttering Sam listened, hoping it would provide a clue, but he couldn't make out any of the words. Then Clint twisted violently, crying out into his pillow.

That was enough of a clue.

"Hey," Sam said, knocking on the doorframe. "Clint, wake up. It's a dream, man." 

Clint came awake, gulping air and rolling -- right off the couch and onto the floor. He flailed as he did it, striking the coffee table in his wake. Then the cursing started. 

Sam stepped forward to grab the coffee table, pulling it out so Clint had more room to rise. Clint popped up to a sitting position, pale and still half-panicked.

"You all right, there?" Sam asked, genuinely worried.

"Loki--" Clint gasped, and had to stop, still trying to breathe. He knelt on the floor, clutching the couch with one hand, his shirt with the other. "Jesus--" he panted after a minute.

"Loki was, uh--" Sam wracked his brain for things Steve had said, things Clint had said. "He was that god, right? Did something to your head?" He was sure mind control had been bandied about, and equally sure there was no such thing.

The look Clint shot him was one of nightmare terror. "I keep seeing them falling. I blew out the engines and their bodies, pieces of their bodies, arms and legs and torsos just fell out of the sky because that whole section, the one they were standing in, was just gone. That was my team, those were my people, and even trying to fight Loki's control I _killed them_ \--"

"Okay, whoa, okay," Sam said, shoving the coffee table further out of the way so he could kneel in front of Clint, come down to Clint's level. He grabbed Clint's face because Clint was still babbling, and when he grabbed Clint's face Clint grabbed his hands and stared at him, hard, like he was a lifeline. 

"You're here now," Sam said, in the tone he used to stabilize the VAs who came in, broken and panicking. "You're here with me, safe in this room. What you did, you had to do. You couldn't control that. You can't save everyone."

"But I didn't save _anyone_." Clint's nails dug into his hands. He ignored it.

"You saved the world," Sam countered. "You were doing what you were supposed to do, and it was horrible, I get that. People died. People even died because of you. But a whole lot more people lived because of you. And you're here, now. You've gotta let that go."

Clint was trembling, and the look in his blue eyes was iron determination, as if he could bore knowledge right into Sam's brain. When he spoke, it was clearly, each word spat out. "He was in my head." 

Sam was so far over his own head, he didn't even know where to begin. "But he's not now." 

"There's pieces of him," Clint said, in that same over-careful way as if he could force Sam to understand. "They're still in there. He comes out in my dreams. He takes away my ability to stop myself. He whispers things. He puts knowledge in my brain I shouldn't have and isn't real."

"I get that," Sam said, though he really didn't. "But you're the only one who can fix this. If you know it isn't real, then hear it and let it go. If he comes in your dreams, see them and let them go. If you can't stop yourself, then make it better later."

Clint's intensity was no less, but different, now. Then he pushed forward, letting go of Sam's hands to grab Sam's head, bringing him in and kissing him.

Despite the fact that Sam froze, Clint was still a remarkable kisser. Clint gentled, tongue teasing at Sam's lips and when Sam opened -- it was kind of automatic -- he swept his tongue over Sam's, strong and soft. 

Sam pulled back. 

Clint blinked at him. 

"We'll come back to that," Sam said, a little unbalanced (what the holy fuck), "but in the meantime, are you okay? Stable? Present?"

Clint colored up. "Sorry," he said, releasing Sam and rocking back. He rolled up to his feet gracefully, turning away, tucking his hands under his armpits. "I mentioned impulse control's an issue, right?" Clint refused to look at him.

Sam was a little relieved. "Hey, no problem. You're a good kisser." 

Clint snorted and still didn't look at him. "You, too, princess."

"Circus boy," Sam shot back, completely happy to revert to name calling.

Then Clint slanted him an odd look. "Do you know...?"

Sam shook his head slowly. "Know what?" 

Blue eyes turned assessing. Also, slightly unfocused. Clint, Sam knew, was still working off a sleeping pill and withdrawal symptoms. "How to do two-handed yo-yo tricks?"

Sam knew that wasn't what Clint had been about to ask. He let it slide. "I don't. Maybe tomorrow, you can show me. Think you could sleep again?" He gestured at the couch.

Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Yeah," he mumbled. "I think I probably could."

**

Nat snuck out the fire escape from her bedroom window in the morning so she didn't have to see either man. Steve had slept in the living room with Barnes, and Nat had figured they'd need their privacy.

She ran for ten miles, as if she could outrun her demons. Desire was a weakness. Friendship was weakness. Wanting the companionship Steve had offered and fearing she'd lose it was complete weakness. Some things the KGB had taught her weren't wrong. 

She quashed the wistful hope that maybe she could be friends with a human lighthouse, that there was a port in her storm. 

She needed to go back to Clint, that was all. Clint didn't care about what she'd done. His own past was nearly as checkered, and he wouldn't demand anything of her that she couldn't give. Steve needed her to be good. Barnes needed her to be ugly. Clint didn't need anything. 

She trod up the stairs to her apartment, ignoring the man on the corner who propositioned her. 

When she walked in, Steve and Barnes were on the floor, both on their stomachs, face to face and talking quietly. Steve saw her, laid a hand on Bucky's flesh arm, and slowly pushed himself to his feet. 

"Nat," he asked tiredly. "Could I talk to you a minute?" He gestured toward the kitchen, around the wall from the living room.

Refusing to acknowledge the dread settling in the pit of her stomach, Nat followed him. She kept emotion off her face, a polite expectant look in place of what she actually felt. Later, she'd pretend the world she'd built over the last year, the one she'd really come to like, wasn't falling down around her ears. 

Steve wasn't facing her when he walked in. His broad shoulders were slumped, his straight spine bent. He turned and gestured her closer, away from the doorway. When she stepped forward warily, he stepped forward too, wrapping his arms around her and putting his cheek against her head.

She froze. Cautiously, she brought her hands up and patted his back.

"I woke up and you were gone," he whispered into her hair. "Don't go, Nat. I am barely holding it together here, and I need help." He pulled away -- more for her sake than his own, she thought -- and she saw the exhaustion in his expression, both mental and physical. Lines of strain were etched into his skin, around his eyes and mouth. 

"Okay," she said slowly, and very warily. God, was he going to start hugging her again? Crying? Steve didn't seem like the crying type, but--

He gave her a small, wry smile. "And I'll promise not to hug you again."

She tipped her head a little in a vague cousin of a shrug, let a smile touch her lips. "It was... nice."

Steve looked innocent. "Is that the first hug you've given since you were pulled out of the Red Room? Because everyone could use a little practice."

She mock-narrowed her eyes as he threw her line back in her face, but her heartbeat picked up. He'd learned about the Red Room? Then what else had he learned about? "What do you know about the Red Room?" she asked, pretending like she was teasing him.

He shrugged. "Not much. Bucky mentioned it. Said they trained you?"

Thank God. She breathed out. "Yeah. They're not the hugs and kittens kind of place."

Steve smiled a little. "Neither is SHIELD. How do we go about feeding Bucky?"

"First," she said, banking her relief, "he probably needs to use the bathroom. You want to handle that, or shall I?"

**

Clint walked into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, trying to pretend like he didn't at all remember his midnight freak out or the fact that he'd _kissed Sam_ , what the hell had he been thinking? Fucking Loki. 

Sam was already there, eating a bowl of Wheaties and staring at the funnies. Clint shuffled toward him, handed him a little black book, and walked away. 

"What's this?" Sam asked, picking it up.

"I found it." Taken it, after rifling through Sam's drawers. 

"You found it... under my underwear?" 

Clint shrugged and got the OJ out. Damn it. It was almost empty. He put it away with the last swallow still inside. 

"Why didn't you just put it back?" Sam sounded exasperated, and Clint couldn't blame him.

Clint shrugged again. How was he supposed to explain penance? 

"Are you some kind of klepto? Is that what this is?"

At that, Clint grinned. "Never thought about it. I guess so." He got a package of ramen noodles out of the cupboard, tore it open, and carried the package to the table. He broke off a corner of the noodles and ate them dry. "Good survival mechanism when I was younger." He hadn't meant to say that. _Shit_. He hadn't meant to say that at all. 

Sam leaned back, considering him. After the silence had stretched well into discomfort, he said, "You are just this bundle of shit that is fucked up. You know that?" 

Clint relaxed. "Sure. Everybody knows that." He snagged a banana and tucked it in the pocket of his borrowed (stolen) hoodie, then got a bowl of cereal.

"Do not let that banana spoil in there," Sam said loudly, turning back to his funnies. 

"Yeah, you need 'em hard to hit your prostate, right?" Clint said back, then cursed himself. What was _wrong_ with him? "I just need to shut the fuck up," he muttered. He grabbed a single serving oatmeal packet and tucked that into his back pocket. 

Sam let the silence stretch for an indecent amount of time. Then, finally, he broke it. "Steve's staying with Nat today. I guess Bucky's really not doing so well."

"Dude has a metal arm. How well do you think he'd be doing?" Clint slid into a chair beside Sam, caging his bowl with his arms on the table and shoveling Cheerios into his mouth faster than he could chew. 

"Breathe, Oliver, you can have more," Sam told him. "And that 'dude' also has Steve, so how bad can that be?"

Clint had no idea what the Oliver reference was to, so he ignored it. "A beacon of perfection," he said through a full mouth, "isn't always comforting." He lost half his Cheerios back into his bowl.

"You have no manners," Sam said in an unimpressed voice. "None. Where the hell did you grow up?"

"Told you," Clint shoveled in another bite. "Circus." 

"You were _serious_?"

Clint nodded to his bowl and tried not to let it show how much it freaked him out that he'd admitted that. He'd been so desperate to get out of the boy's home, and then so desperate to please Barney, and then so desperate not to be alone. God, he could feel that information bubbling up his throat. Proactively he said, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay." Sam held up his hands and sat back. "I won't--"

"No." Frustration flared, because he could _feel_ the words right there. "You don't understand. Impulse control is an issue, here, and _I don't want to talk about it_." God, he nearly couldn't stop it, though. With a snarl he leaped up, chair falling back, and chucked his bowl across the kitchen. Milk sailed in a perfect arc, and the bowl and spoon crashed into the sink. 

Sam jumped up, too, looking determined. He grabbed Clint's face and kissed him. It definitely wasn't a nice kiss. More like a hard press of barely covered teeth against Clint's mouth. Sam pulled away and stared at him.

"What the hell was that?" Clint demanded.

"I don't know!" Sam yelled back. "You needed a distraction and that worked for you last night!"

Clint stared at Sam. Sam stared back. Then Clint started laughing, and the tension crumbled around them. "Okay," he said between breaths, "that's a good point." He clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder companionably, felt Sam pat his back a few times, and went to clean up the mess he'd made. 

"If you don't want to talk about something," Sam said, bending to help swipe paper towels across the tile, "and impulse control is an issue, just tell me. We'll distract you. Should help, right?"

Still chuckling, Clint nodded. "Yeah. It'll help."

"What did you do about it before the meds got it under control?" Sam sat up on his heels, tossing soggy paper towels into the trash bin. "I mean, you must know a lot of stuff that SHIELD didn't want its enemies to hear."

Clint tossed his own paper towels away and sighed. "Yeah. I wasn't out of medical without a handler, who kept me under close supervision. Thankfully, most of my ops are a long distance from the mark or with other SHIELD people." 

Sam nodded. "Sounds rough."

Clint didn't particularly want to dwell on that, either. "I think I promised you some yo-yo tricks."

Sam, thankfully, took the bait. "Yeah. Let me go move furniture so we have more room." He pushed up to his feet and wandered out, graceful. Clint watched him go for a minute, then let out a deep sigh. It could definitely have been worse. Sam did have a great ass. 

He rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling the little hairs there rise. It wasn't anything. Just the usual paranoia. "Hey, Sam?" he called, following. "You feel like we're being watched?"

"I don't," Sam said back without missing a beat. "Grab the yo-yo. Let's wow Steve."

**

Blood crusted the edges of his cuff. It was black and flaked off easily. It smeared against his raw skin and turned pink again. When he moved, more blood welled. Pain flared up all along the manacle. He stared at it, unseeing. 

He squatted on the tile floor, hoping the cold would numb him. His muscles still cramped with the last round of electricity they'd used. 

_"It's not just your heart,"_ they'd said, while he keened around the bite guard that kept him from breaking his own teeth. _"There are other things that need to be involved, too. Your adrenals, of course, and this part of your brain must activate. I think, ultimately, something like a mental pacemaker will give us full control of the Hulk. First, though, we need to see if it's possible to bore into your skull to insert the pacemaker."_

Oh god, they couldn't bore into his skull.

His feet were bare. He hadn't bothered buttoning his pants. It had only been two days of "experimentation," and he could no longer sleep. He couldn't keep food down. When he'd started to fight them the last time, they'd taken Timoteo and led Bruce around by the cuff, and when he offered to trade them knowledge for no more experiments, they'd promised him that after the next round, he could have a day off. 

He clung to the knowledge that, tomorrow, he wouldn't be drugged and bound and injected and electrocuted. They wanted to see if cutting him, instead of just injecting him, would make the part of his brain that triggered the other guy respond faster. He couldn't stop the noise that forced itself from his throat at the thought. He took deep breaths. He couldn't let the other guy out. He couldn't. 

He couldn't. 

He couldn't.

On the bed, where Bruce's arm stretched up, Timoteo began to fuss. Bruce ignored the fussing. It became a wail. 

And what did Timoteo have to wail about? He wasn't being tortured. He was being fed and changed. He had care twenty four hours a day. Bruce couldn't even leave him to a babysitter.

The baby screamed. Cries rose in pitch, breaking only for giant breaths and then to start again.

"Stop it!" Bruce yelled, leaping up and slamming his hands down around Timoteo. "You have no reason to cry!"

Timoteo gulped several sobs and started to cry again, his face red, his hands and feet bunched. 

The other guy rolled over.

What Bruce had just done hit him. "I'm sorry," he said, sliding his free hand under Timoteo, his cuffed hand supporting the baby's rump. He didn't lift the bundle, but rather collapsed down onto him, burying his face in the blankets by Timoteo's head. "I'm so sorry." He closed his eyes tight. Huddled over Timoteo, while the baby cried. 

He couldn't do this. He couldn't survive this. He couldn't _not_ survive this. He scooped Timoteo against his chest and rolled, staring up at the cameras in the corner. "I can't," he begged, knowing they wouldn't care, knowing it wouldn't work. "I can't do this anymore." 

**


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggery warnings for self-harmish thoughts.

Steve perched on the fire escape outside Nat's kitchen, spine against the rough stucco of the wall, hip propped on the rail, one boot up. The city noises cuddled around him, but it didn't matter. He felt more alone than he had when he'd woken to a whole new world. 

The mug of tea in his hands should have warmed him, but it didn't. He was cold where his heart had been, and sometimes now he wondered if that bit of himself was gone. Maybe it had never thawed out. 

God, he missed the Commandos.

Nat poked her head out the window, leaning on the frame. "You good out here?"

"Of course. Does Bucky need me?" 

Nat glanced back. "I can keep him company awhile."

He couldn't ask her to do that. Bucky was his responsibility, just as he'd once been Bucky's. Nat had done more than enough. He didn't want to press her and send her running away. He didn't know her well enough to know where those boundaries were. 

Maybe it was him, he thought, not for the first time. Maybe he was too much out of place for people to get close. So he put on a brave face and smiled at Nat. "That's all right. I'll take care of him." He ducked through the window and stepped inside, then walked quietly to the living area where Bucky was still tied. "Buck?" he asked gently. "Aside from your arm, do you know what other changes they made?"

Bucky twisted his head and stared at Steve out of eyes that were too hard to be his friend. "Why?"

Steve settled down Indian style (except you weren't supposed to say that anymore), with his tea in his hands. "It's just, I'm betting that if we can disarm your -- uh, arm, and you aren't strong all over, we can keep you safe enough." He looked at the metal arm dubiously, though, with no idea how they'd even get at the inner workings.

Bucky's eyes drifted, as if he were thinking about it. Then he shuddered and closed them.

"Does it hurt?" That was Nat's voice. Steve turned in some surprise, glad she'd asked the question he was just wondering.

"No," Bucky said without opening his eyes. There was a furrow in his brow, but Steve didn't think he was lying. 

"I could disable his arm." She said it simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Maybe for her, it was.

Steve glanced at Bucky, but Bucky was non-responsive. He made an executive decision, and hoped it was the right one. "Do it."

**

Sam practiced the yo-yo trick again and again, focusing on catching the string at just the right time.

Clint, who was apparently permanently twitchy, glanced out the front window. "You don't feel like anyone's watching?"

"Nu uh," Sam said, and _there_ to catch the string--

He missed, and the whole trick fell apart. "Well, shit," Sam muttered. He wound the yo-yo back up, preparing to try again. A glance at Clint sent a spike of compassion through him, though, and he paused. Clint looked hyper-vigilant, gaze out the window but flicking from lawn to street to phone wires. His shoulders were tense, the muscles in his neck standing hard. 

Sam took a deep breath, pulling his mind out of the yo-yo game. He did a mental check, giving Clint's question the thought it was due. 

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. "Get your bag," he said, edging toward the front window. 

Clint didn't wait for an explanation. He strode rapidly to the bedroom, seeming almost relieved and definitely focused now that he wasn't the only one feeling paranoid. 

Sam looked out the front window. Everything was normal, which could have been dangerous or could have been normal. The cable van half the street down was emblazoned with "AT&T", but it might still have been a set up. The construction guys had been working on a new fence five doors away for a week now, but were they the same guys? 

The neighbor across the street walked out in his pajamas, kissing his girlfriend goodbye. She was clearly doing the walk of shame, with no shame about it. Then she turned and looked right at Sam. It was only an instant before her gaze stutter-skipped elsewhere, but it was too purposeful. 

"Something's up!" Sam called, retreating from the window. 

Clint was already coming out of the bedroom, Hello Kitty case thumping down the stairs behind him, a small computer notebook-looking thing in his hand. 

Sam recognized the device from darker days: sonar. "Got anything to see if people are transmitting?" he asked, ducking past Clint and heading to the bedroom. He grabbed his gun from under his mattress, checked that it was loaded, and opened the closet for his bolt-kit. Underwear, cash, food, a burner phone, all stashed in a duffel bag.

"That part's not working," Clint answered from downstairs. "But -- shit! Hurry it up, we've got incoming in five, four--"

Sam left the boots he was going to grab and leaped over the banister. He caught the Hello Kitty case as Clint went for the door, dragging it back inside and knowing that Clint would follow. "Under the stairs!" Sam had examined the blueprints when he'd bought the house, like any good paranoid ex-military rescue op member would do, and the closet was secure. He yanked the door open and shoved the case and his kit in, then dove in after them. Clint was hot on his heels.

"--one--" Clint said as he jerked the door closed.

By instinct Sam wrapped himself around Clint, felt Clint wrap himself around the Hello Kitty case, and tried to cover their heads. The world rose and then dropped. Wood and stucco and drywall crashed against them. Something cracked across Sam's shoulders. The door exploded inward, taking half the frame and part of the wall with it. It was a godsend; he could feel the thumps against it as more of the house collapsed, hitting the door that acted as a shield.

And then silence fell.

Sam took a breath filled with dust. He took another, feeling Clint breathing beneath him. Something else fell, but overall things were stable. 

"Go," he said, shoving upward, pushing the door and rubble off them, clearing a path while Clint grabbed their things and leaped out. 

The world was muffled as if there were cotton in his ears, but it didn't matter. Clint launched over a half-wall, splashing through broken pipes that had once been the kitchen. Sam followed, covering Clint's back.

The neighbors were all pouring out of their houses, lining the sidewalk, rushing over. The neighbor's girlfriend was on the phone, and watched them leave with a flat gaze. She frowned at them. Then reached under the coat thrown over one arm--

Sam didn't give her time to draw. He aimed and shot, forcing her to duck for cover. Then they were halfway down the street and Clint was leaping into the AT&T van (which, glancing at the inside, really _was_ an AT &T van), throwing it into gear.

Sam clambered into the passenger side, taking aim again at the woman who'd tucked herself behind a car and was now shooting at them.

"Hold on," Clint said. "Fancy driving ahead!"

Sam yanked his seat belt on as he was thrown against the side window. "I love fancy driving." 

"I learned this in the circus." Clint drove across a lawn, in between two houses, through someone's side fence, and floored it across a back yard. 

Sam's head hit the top of the roof before he bounced back into his seat. "We need to ditch this van A-SAP!" They were both yelling, both cotton-eared. It was working.

"I have a plan," Clint shouted back, and went through another fence, popping out onto a residential street and flooring it toward the park. 

**

He twitched when the little disk (he remembered that disk, remembered her throwing it at him before, remembered his arm going dead) clicked onto his shoulder, a blemish in the middle of the blood red star, and sent electricity through the mechanics of his arm. 

His arm sagged. 

He shuddered, biting back relief and panic both. 

"Does it hurt?" Steve asked, looking at him with concern. Too much concern; the weight of it pressed on him, crushed his mind. 

He didn't answer. 

After a moment Steve began untying him. He kept himself from yelling at Steve to stop, but he couldn't keep from tensing up. Sensation prickled through his knee when Nat took the magnetic handcuff off, allowing his leg to relax for the first time in a day. He couldn't quite stop the little groan, or pull away when Nat's strong fingers dug into sore tendons and muscles, working out the cramps. 

"It won't last long," Steve said to him. "Let's get you up."

He didn't object. Objecting was too hard. He let Steve manhandle him until they could help him up, let Steve practically lift him, let Steve walk him around the room until his legs began working again. 

The arm was a dead weight at his side. The thought struck him that maybe, just maybe if they could rip it off, then all the things he'd done, all the memories he didn't want that were coming back, maybe they'd all go away. Maybe it never would have happened. 

"Get it off," he whispered through numb lips.

Steve bent his head closer. "What?"

"Get it off," he said a little louder. 

"The disk? You know we can't--"

"The _arm_!" Bucky yanked away, spinning to force the metal arm away from his body and letting it crash into the wall. It dented the drywall, but didn't do any harm to the metal. Instead it slammed back against his ribs, burning the flesh it touched. Bucky punched the wall, splitting his knuckles. It didn't help. He couldn't look at Steve. He pressed his hand to the cool plaster, leaned his forehead against it, closed his eyes.

"Buck--" Steve cut off abruptly. Bucky willed him gone. A moment later, after a stretch of silence, Steve walked away.

Nat appeared, the shadow when the pillar left. "Come," she said, sliding herself under his human arm. "You need to use the bathroom while you're up." There was no give in her hold around his waist. She pulled, and he went. 

There was, thankfully, not an ounce of compassion in her. 

"Can you take it off?" he asked, tipping his head to breathe the words into her hair.

"No," she answered thoughtfully. "But I might know someone who can."

**

It turned out that Erik Selvig was an interesting guy, despite the lack of pants. Something of a genius in his own right, though of course Tony was still smarter. 

They discussed Einstein-Rosen bridges and quizzed Thor, who looked like he was indulging them, about Asgardian magic. 

Tony stopped wearing pants, too. The first day he took them off in Jane's shared apartment, Erik laughed and pointed. "Hey," he'd said. "You're getting with the program! Come on, I'll get you a drink."

After that Thor stopped wearing pants in the apartment. Darcy filmed them, though Tony did make her promise that he got to approve any videos that ended up online first, and Jane -- after blushing for a solid day -- got over her embarrassment and joined them in their late night discussions. She, however, kept her pants on.

"Pep, you'd love it here," Tony insisted, on the phone with her for the third time that day. "Clothing's optional."

"What? Tony --"

"Kidding, kidding. Not really. There's lots of genuises, and Thor's great for PR." 

"That's good, Tony. When are you coming home?" 

She asked that question fairly frequently. She'd also come to visit him on a twelve hour layover, and approved of the castle in a Pepper way (she told him it was an expense they didn't need, and that Stark Industries was _not_ paying to have the armor polished, thank you very much, but she hadn't been able to hide her enjoyment at the secret passageways), so he figured she'd come back. He did what he always did when the subject of him coming home came up. "Uh oh, line's breaking up. And Thor is making waffles. Gotta go, babe!" He clicked his phone off and slapped it on the table. 

"What's the deal with you and your girlfriend?" Darcy asked from where she sat on the counter, aiming a cameraphone at him. 

"Me and Pep? We're complicated. But not at all, really."

"You know you spend more time here than at your castle?"

"You know you're wearing pants in a pants-free zone?" 

"These are boxer-briefs." She wiggled her socking-clad toes. "Seriously." She turned the camera off. "Why London?"

"Why not?" He waved a hand. "LA's not really my style anymore. And New York is -- well, too many immigrating illegal aliens for my taste. And the rest of the US just isn't up to speed. Maybe Seattle, but only if I wanted to start a chain of coffee shops, which I don't. But if I did, they'd be the best."

"Of course," Darcy agreed. That's what he liked about her so much.

"How fared our brothers and sister in arms after the mighty battle?" Thor asked, actually making waffles. He wore a "Kiss the Cook" apron that hung to his hairy knees. 

"What? You mean the battle for New York? I don't know. Bruce hung around a while, he's a good guy, but then he got a bee up his butt and decided to," Tony used air quotes, even if it wasn't at all what Bruce had said, "'go find his Other Self.' I didn't keep in touch with anyone else."

This clearly disturbed Thor, who turned to look at him. 

"Oh!" Tony said, snapping his fingers. "I hired Maria Hill. Y'know. When Cappy brought SHIELD down around everyone's ears. That's been good for business, I'll tell you. SHIELD going down, not Maria Hill, although Pepper wouldn't have hired her if she wasn't good. Kinda makes me wish I was still in the weapons business, but then again, I have more money than God so..." He took a breath. Darcy was filming him again. "Getting this for posterity?"

She nodded. 

Thor set aside his spoon and crossed his arms over his chest, every inch the disappointed god. "As a Lord of this realm, it is your duty to be sure our brothers and sister in arms are cared for."

"As a -- what?" Tony asked, standing up straight. He picked up his phone and switched it from one hand to the other in agitation. "If anyone was the Lord of our little Dance, it was Cap. And where was he, huh, when I was saving the damned President?" 

It was too many references for Thor to follow, so he simply cut to the chase. "Indeed, if you were in battle and the good Captain did not help you, that is a blight on his shield. But that does not change your own mistake in not seeking out our--"

"Brothers and sister in arms, yeah, I got that." 

Then Thor grinned. It was big and terrifying and Tony couldn't help smiling in response. "We shall seek them out! Indeed, we shall travel to the newest York and have a great feast in celebration!"

"Oh, no," Tony said immediately. "I don't travel to the newest York, oldest York, or little sister York." He was about to come up with a witty excuse when Thor clapped him on the shoulder -- thank God Thor had learned some restraint, because Tony _still_ staggered -- and said with more compassion than that many muscles should have, "It is time to face your demons, Tony. We will be with you."

That should have just made him defensive, but somehow, it didn't. He eyed Thor and wished he had whatever superpower Thor had clearly just zapped him with. "Okay," he said at last. "We'll head back State-side, at least. But on one condition: when you see Pepper, you fall to one knee and proclaim her the grandest lady in all the realms. I can't _wait_ to see her face."

Thor's grin returned, full force. "Agreed!"

**

Steve slapped the clean plates into Natasha's cupboard, his distress stewing into anger. When she came in to help him, he muttered through stiff lips, "You can't tell him you'll take off his arm."

She didn't look up in surprise. "Why not?"

Steve took a breath, gripping the edge of the counter. Anger wouldn't get him anywhere. "It's his _arm_."

"It's an incredibly heavy prosthesis that's probably causing him pain, and is a constant reminder of all the things he'd rather forget. It's not his arm, Steve." 

The bathroom door opened. Closed. Steve glanced at Nat, who hadn't moved. "You going back out there?"

She looked at him, and somehow he knew that she was waiting for him to pull his head out of his behind and go see his friend. He had to fix things.

He didn't have any idea how.

Steve stepped around her and headed into the main room, tucking his hands in his pockets. "That doo-dad's only got five minutes before your arm reboots. Nat's got fifty of them, though, so say the word and we'll just keep using them." It would give Bucky about four hours of free time, but after that he'd be trussed again. Steve didn't mention that. Math had never been Bucky's strong suit.

Bucky wouldn't look at him. Instead, blue-gray eyes were trained on the floor where he'd lain for hours. His hair half fell in his face. 

"You want some clean clothes?" Steve asked helplessly. "I've got some extras at Sam's place."

"Sure," Bucky murmured. 

With relief, Steve pulled out his phone and dialed. He frowned when the automated voice said the line was disconnected, then dialed Clint's number.

Clint answered on the second ring. "Hey, Steve." He sounded out of breath.

Steve paused. "Everything okay?"

"Oh, yeah, we're just, uh... Sam?"

Off the line, Steve heard Sam yell, "They bombed my place, Steve! I hadn't even paid it off, and I doubt _very_ much that 'Bombing by HYDRA' is covered by my insurance!"

Steve glanced at Bucky, who couldn't hear a thing, then headed toward the kitchen. "Where are you now?"

"On a line that may or may not have been compromised," Clint responded. "Hang on. We'll call you back." The line went dead.

"Nat," Steve said. "We have a problem."

Her phone started to ring even before he had a chance to tell her what was going on. She looked at the unknown number, looked at Steve, and answered the phone on speaker. "Hello?"

It was Sam. "We think we've shaken them, but I wouldn't suggest going back to the house."

"Where are you?" Steve said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bucky edging closer.

"You sure this line is secure?" A little distance away, Steve could hear Clint piping up with, "Of course it is, it's Nat's!"

"Yes," Nat said dryly.

"We're in Chinatown, but we wouldn't mind heading to you." 

Nat rattled off her address, the two men reassured Steve that they didn't need help, and they hung up.

"So," Bucky said, "no clothes for me, huh?"

Steve grinned at him, far bigger than the joke warranted, glad just to hear him speak. His voice was rough with misuse, but it was music to Steve's ears. Even better, it was exactly the kind of thing Bucky would say. 

**

By the time Clint and Sam arrived, Nat had procured new clothes for Bucky. Steve didn't ask where she'd gotten them, and tried not to be jealous when the look Bucky sent her was filled with quiet thanks. 

"We've got a car," Clint said, standing as far from Bucky as he could get and still be in the apartment. "Sam's cash and my fake ID to keep it from getting traced."

"Did you steal it?" Steve had to double check; he'd learned that working with Nat. If it was stolen, it'd be reported soon.

"Rented," Sam said, dropping his kit and crossing to Bucky. "Good to meet you when there's no one shooting," he said, smiling and offering his hand. 

Bucky recoiled, the look in his eyes wary and alarmed. When Sam's smile didn't change and his hand didn't drop, Bucky took it carefully. He let it go quickly, too.

"This is my friend, Sam," Steve said. "You can trust him."

"I remember shooting at him," Bucky snipped back, and Steve stifled a smile at the show of emotion. 

"And I remember kicking some Winter Solider ass, but you don't see me holding a grudge," Sam returned cheerfully.

The Bucky that Steve remembered would have laughed, punched Sam in the shoulder, maybe wrestled with him. This Bucky only looked at him narrow-eyed, on the defensive. 

Steve didn't let his distress show. 

Clint had edged into the little dining area -- vacant of furniture -- by the kitchen, where Nat stood. Steve heard him ask, " _How_ long have you had him here?" and her hush him. It was a non-answer that Steve filed away for later. He'd been wondering the same thing, but had other things to occupy him.

"The real question," Nat said, getting everyone's attention, "is why they went after Sam's place. Were they after Captain America? Whatever Clint has in that bag? Simply taking out enemies of HYDRA, now that they've found them?" 

"How likely is it that they could have tracked you here?" Steve asked Sam and Clint, glancing from one to the other.

"With Clint's paranoia and both our skills? None," Sam said. Clint grinned. 

Steve turned to Nat. "And how likely they would have found you--"

Her gaze sharpened, suddenly, to his left. Before she even called the warning he was turning, checking Bucky.

Bucky's pupils were wide. He stood with perfect posture, perfectly still. Then his head turned slowly, and he looked at Steve. His eyebrows twitched: inward, perplexed. Then his expression smoothed out. He kicked out at Steve's knees, his dead metal arm slowing him the tiniest bit. Steve dodged, then dodged again as Bucky closed, following the kick with several quick strikes. But one-armed, with dead weight hanging off his shoulder and no way to block, he couldn't keep it up. Steve stepped into the third blow, allowing it to land, then grabbed Bucky and twisted him. Putting him in a hold wasn't difficult. 

"Bucky, it's me," Steve said into his ear, Bucky's back against Steve's chest. Nat stood nearby, watching as if they were having a minor disagreement. Clint was poised to leap into the fray, and Sam poised but obviously uncertain. "I have this," he told them all while Bucky wrenched to try and escape. Moves that would have flipped anyone else didn't do much against Steve. He straightened, lifting Bucky's feet off the floor, and endured the resultant battering against his lower body. 

"Bucky," he said again. "Bucky, it's me."

"I don't know you!" Bucky yelled, voice filled with confusion and a panicky sort of determination. 

"Solider," Nat barked. "Stand down."

Bucky went still. Steve could feel him breathing, great gulps of air that had nothing to do with exertion. "What did you just do?" Steve asked, trying to hide his horror and failing. Tension quivered in Bucky's muscles, as if he fought the order but could only do so much.

Nat ignored Steve, stepping in front of Bucky. Her posture was self-sure, almost belligerent. "Report." 

Bucky heaved against Steve, then went still.

Nat stepped closer. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him. Then she stepped back and slapped him, hard. 

"Natasha!" Steve yelled, moving with the blow so that at least Bucky's neck wouldn't wrench. "What is--"

Clint spoke. "Shut it, Cap." 

"Report," Natasha barked again. 

Bucky took a long, shuddering breath. "The mission failed."

"Which mission parameters did you fail in?" She folded her hands behind her back, her feet squared off. 

"I -- I can't--" Bucky turned his head, and Steve saw the confusion in his expression. "I knew..." 

Steve felt the metal shoulder twitch, and gave Natasha a sharp look he hoped she understood. She must have; she gave him a quick nod. 

"We're going to shut you down. Restart your parameters," she said. Steve wondered if she was fishing in the dark or if she and Bucky had talked, and still didn't know the answer when he felt Bucky stiffen and tremble. The look of confusion was replaced with dead acceptance, and Bucky faced forward again. Anger and sadness flushed through Steve, near rage at the people who'd done this to his best friend. He wanted to reassure Bucky, but didn't dare break through whatever spell Natasha had woven to keep Bucky placid. 

He didn't know if it was worth it, though. He preferred Bucky fighting. 

Nat glanced at Clint, who slipped behind her and picked up the magnetic cuffs from the floor. 

"Sit him down against that wall," Nat told Steve, nodding toward a blank space near the dining area. Clint locked the magnetic handcuff around Bucky's flesh wrist. Steve set Bucky gently against the wall, and the cuff clunked against it. Steve glanced sharply at Nat. She shrugged. 

Clint attached the other cuff around Bucky's ankle, and Nat said, "Kneel." 

Bucky did so, slipping out of Steve's arms, flesh wrist pinned to the wall above his head. Clint clapped the other cuff to his metal arm, hog tying him.

Steve slipped around to see Bucky, trying not to let his own pain show. It was only temporary. Bucky had to get better.

Then Bucky looked at him, gray eyes helpless and sad. "When will this war be over?" he murmured. 

Steve crouched, cupping Bucky's jaw. "Soon," he promised, blinking back the burning in his eyes. "You're doing great." 

Bucky's gaze dropped and he went still, an automaton waiting for his next orders. 

"Excuse me," Steve said to the room, and fled to the fire escape. 

**


	8. Chapter 8

Thor followed Jane into their bedroom, trying to calm the frown that wanted to darken his features. "I don't understand. Surely your work can be done in New York--"

"I can't just up and leave, Thor!" Jane might have been a great mage of the realm, but Thor had learned that here, mages of the realm weren't expected to comport themselves with any more decorum than the rest. No wonder Loki had been drawn to Midgard. Truly, the Lady Jane hadn't learned how to temper her wrath. 

He took a step back and tried to calm his own ire. He spoke carefully. "Why are you angry with me?"

"I'm not--"

"I'm ready!" Darcy bellowed from the other room. "When did Tony say his jet would be up and prepped?"

Jane turned away, clearly seething, and Thor pondered the situation. Mayhap he was miscalculating. Darcy may play the fool, but every prince knew that the fool had the ear of the king. 

Thor stepped out of Jane's room and made his way to Darcy. "M'lady," he said, smiling upon her hand, knowing full well how she enjoyed the act. "If you would do me the honor of explaining Jane's ire--"

"Oh, she's pissed at you all right," Darcy said with a throaty chuckle. "What did you expect when you decided you were heading to another country? I mean, you did leave her for like, two years, big guy." She slapped him on the shoulder. 

"I thought we would all go to the newest York," he pointed out, a little lost. "Jane is a great scholar in this realm, and surely--"

"Great scholars have to work off great grants," Darcy said, giving him a sympathetic look. 

A goal. That, he could work with. "And where do we find such a 'grant'?"

Darcy tipped her head at him. One of the baubles on her hat swung loose. "You should ask Tony. I bet he'd know where to find a few grants." Then Darcy moved past him, swinging her backpack into his stomach as she did so. He caught it automatically. "Jane!" Darcy called. "Pack your stuff! You know you're going to New York with us." 

Selvig, hunting and pecking at keys on a laptop that was braced between his bare knees, chuckled. "You need a vacation," he agreed. "At the very least, take a week!"

Jane came out of her room, as beautiful and deadly as a windstorm. "Vacation! Erik, how am I supposed to keep an eye on the electromagnetic field if I'm in New York? Thor might be able to just take off as he pleases, but _some_ of us have things we need to do!"

Erik waved a hand without looking at her. "I can watch the spectrometers."

"And who's going to keep an eye on _you_?" she snapped. Her eyes sparked like twin gems heated in the depths of the dwarves' forges. 

Thor finally began to understand. She was upset not because he was going, but because she thought he'd paid her no heed in his quest to see his brothers and sister in arms. He smiled at her, stepped between her and Selvig, catching her elbows in his hands. He cradled her with the gentleness she deserved. "Lady Jane, I never meant to 'take off' as you say and leave you here, in London. I had not realized how delicate your work was, nor that you could not take it with you. Of course, if it is that important, I would rather stay here with you than travel to the new York." 

Jane looked at him, her ire fading. Finally she laughed quietly and shook her head. "It's just New York, Thor. That's the name of the place."

He considered that. "Then two weeks ago, we visited... Old York?"

"That's just York."

He sighed. "Midgardian naming schemes lack creativity." 

Darcy piped up, coming out of Jane's room with a packed suitcase. "We should take you on a tour of the Peach Streets in the southern US." 

"Are they magnificent?" Thor asked, interested. Midgard had, indeed, changed much since he'd been a god here.

"They're Peach," Darcy said.

Thor didn't understand it. But then, he didn't understand half of what Darcy said.

"Darce!" Jane protested. "That's my suitcase!"

"Yeah, I packed for you," Darcy said cheerfully. "Mostly lingerie and bikinis... You need some new bikinis, girlfriend."

Jane snatched the case out of Darcy's hand and marched back to her bedroom. "I think I need a little more than lingerie and bikinis!"

"Not at Tony's place," Darcy sang, following her back.

Thor glanced at Erik with a little smile. _Thor_ wouldn't mind if all she had was lingerie and bikinis.

**

Bucky hadn't come back to himself at all the night before. When Steve woke in the morning, though, Bucky was helping Natasha make coffee, his metal arm dead and carried in a make-shift sling. 

Bucky took one look at Steve and that terrifying look of confusion crossed his face again. He asked Nat in a whisper who Steve was, remembered with a flush when she told him, and was crippled by a headache. It all took less than five minutes.

After they got Bucky settled (again), Steve took his coffee out onto the fire escape. 

Steve had to believe that things would get better. The other options weren't worth thinking about, and he hadn't gotten through a war imagining ways they might fail. 

But sometimes, in the war, sometimes if you had a bad night people understood. If you needed time or space to do nothing but stare at your mud-splattered boots, other guys got that. It wasn't often Steve needed that time and space, but today... today he could see all too well how the war within Bucky wasn't one he could win. All he could do was wait and see if Bucky won it. 

Steve sat on the thin metal rail and looked out at Washington. It had changed in seventy years. You had to expect that, but it made him feel alone and alien. Most times he could handle that all right. He'd had a hard time making friends (though he was great at making acquaintances), but he kept himself busy. He studied up on the world. He went on missions. He worked out. He enjoyed the new architecture that had sprung up since he'd last been alive. 

He tried to pretend like it wasn't a lonely existence. He'd hoped things would change, when he'd seen Bucky. It was _Bucky_. Whatever happened, they'd get through it together, and that crucial, life-giving part of his past would be back. He wouldn't be so alone. They could laugh about the world together.

It wasn't going that way.

Nat ducked through the kitchen window onto the fire escape. When Steve did it, it clanged and rattled. When she did it, it was like a breeze through a laundry line: nothing more than whisper. 

"Thought you were still out here," Nat said, settling herself in the opposite corner, ducking behind the ladder that went upward. "Everything okay?"

He looked at her. Her shape was broken up by the ladder stairs. She looked out over the alley, glancing along the windows of the building across. His grief at everything he'd lost was too hard. It coalesced into a hard knot of fury in his chest. "How long have you had him?" he asked, trying not to sound angry or bitter.

Her gaze steadied on someone's window, then moved on again. "A couple of days. I convinced him to call you as quickly as I could." She sipped her coffee. He couldn't tell if she really was that unconcerned, that unable to see what she'd done, or if she was faking. 

"You knew I was looking for him," he said with quiet anger.

She looked down at her mug. "Yes."

Was that shame? Regret? Or was she playing him? He slid off the rail and took one step toward her. " _Stop acting_." 

It was in those moments when faced with his frustration that she faltered. At least, he thought she did. Maybe she was still acting. But the wide-eyed glance he got, quickly schooled into passivity, seemed real.

Clint poked his head out the window. "Everything okay out here?"

Steve took a breath and calmed himself. This was Nat. He knew this was Nat. Keeping Bucky hidden was _exactly_ the kind of thing Fury encouraged in his agents. Duplicity. Lies. Tucking information away, secret. He'd thought they were past that, Nat and him, but he guessed not.

"I've got it handled," Nat said coolly.

Clint glanced between them and then went back inside. 

Steve let the pigeons coo for a moment. Nat waited for him to break the silence. "Why would you do that?" he asked softly. "Know that I was looking for him so desperately, and tell me that you were going to build some new identities? Were you looking for him the whole time?"

Why would she lie?

"I did go build a new identity," Nat said, and gestured at the apartment. It had, of course, only been hers a few weeks. "It just didn't take very long. I knew the Winter Solider was loose somewhere nearby. I knew he was dangerous." 

He watched her pause, catch her breath, wondered if that was an affectation or real. She spoke again. "I didn't know if he was safe to leave alive. I knew you couldn't pull the trigger."

Part of him felt stabbed, knowing she would have done that to his friend. A bigger part of him settled, though. He understood it. He'd been through war, where hard decisions had to be made. "You could have trusted me," he said.

She looked flat, somehow lifeless. "I'm sorry." 

He stared out over the city, letting his emotions settle. When she turned to go back in, he stopped her. "I need to trust someone, Nat," he said. "The last time I tried to make friends, they tried to kill me in an elevator. The time before that, she turned out to be an agent sent to watch over me. I just need someone I can talk to when things are rough, you know?" 

She still didn't look at him. "I'm sure Bucky will come around--"

"I don't mean Bucky!" He regretted his sharp tone the instant the words were out. With a grimace, he turned away. He'd never been good at talking to women, even when they were Nat. That had been Bucky's forte.

But then, he couldn’t imagine Bucky seducing Nat.

"I mean you," he said finally. He shook his head, looking out at the world. "I'm hurt that you would do that," he said, "and I hope you won't again. Just be honest with me. All right?" He turned and looked at her.

She was staring at him, eyebrows furrowed, one hand resting lightly on the windowsill. "I don't understand you," she said quietly.

He snorted. "Well, that's mutual." 

"I thought you'd be angrier."

"Believe me, I'm plenty angry." Though the anger was easing, he could feel. Talking it out had always helped, and he didn't believe she'd acted to hurt him on purpose. He believed she'd made a hard choice.

A smile touched her lips. She took her hand off the windowsill, and closed the distance between them. Leaning against the railing, she stared out across the alley with him. "I don't know how to be a good friend, you know."

He bumped her shoulder with his. "Then just be a bad friend. You're a quick study. You'll learn." 

The smile hiding at the corner of her lips loosed for just a moment. She slanted him a look, amused and oddly relieved. "I'll do my best."

**

Clint paced away from the window, his mind full of thoughts he didn't like. It must have shown on his face, because Sam glanced up from the StarkPad he was using as a television and asked, "What's wrong?"

Clint almost didn't say anything. But, hell, his own readings were off. "You ever think maybe Steve's HYDRA?"

Sam set the StarkPad down and turned a dubious expression on Clint. "What? Man took HYDRA down, remember? Pretty spectacularly."

"Maybe it was a set up." The links clicked together in Clint's mind, one after the other. "Expose them to make the world think that the problem is solved. Let the higher ups act more freely, and crack down on government agencies that might otherwise be able to stop HYRDA. I mean, now that we're all out of SHIELD, what's to stop HYDRA at all?" 

Sam stood up, walking toward Clint with calming hand gestures. "Clint--"

Clint scuttled out of the way. He picked up an apple off the counter and tossed it, hand to hand. "It's perfect. Now everyone will assume that Steve's the good guy, take his advice, let him into the inner circles. He's the perfect mole--" Clint turned to gesture at Sam, but Sam was _right there_. Big hands closed at the edges of his jaw and pulled him in for a kiss.

It was chaste and closed-mouthed. When Sam pulled away, staring hard at Clint, Clint frowned. "Why the hell'd you do that?" He voice was a little louder than he'd meant it to be.

Sam shrugged but didn't let go of Clint. "It's worked twice now."

Clint brought his hands between Sam's arms, knocking them away. "For impulse control! It's not going to make me less paranoid!" Except he had to admit, he wasn't thinking about Steve being HYDRA anymore. He dropped the apple and stepped close to Sam, grabbing Sam's shirt at his waist to pull him close, wrapping his other hand around Sam's neck. He shoved backward until Sam hit the wall near Bucky, pressing his chest against Sam's chest.

Fuck, but Sam felt good. He smelled good, and Clint broke the kiss to inhale the particular desert odor that was Sam. 

"Okay--" Sam said.

Clint didn't let him continue. He kissed Sam again, sliding his tongue into Sam's mouth, dragging Sam's T-shirt upward to feel warm, pliant skin under his palm. 

Sam grunted against Clint, then grabbed Clint and twisted hard, pinning Clint against the wall and grinding them together. He caught the callused hand that Clint was trying to sneak up his shirt, pinning it in place. Then he pressed his thigh between Clint's legs, rubbing firmly against Clint's junk when Clint spread slightly. 

Clint thrust, broke the kiss to bite at Sam's jawline, only to have Sam's free hand thread through the back of his hair and yank his head up, holding him still while Sam went back to his mouth. 

Clint shuddered, trying to speed things up again while Sam held his head still and slowed it all down. Sam licked Clint's lip, drew back when he tried to bite, then rewarded Clint's calming with a slow, thorough exploration of Clint's mouth. 

Clint relaxed slowly, letting Sam set the pace. Breathing was overrated, as long as Sam's tongue kept sliding along his own, and Sam's thigh kept him pinned just right, and Sam's hand was flattening his wrist to the wall. 

" _Jesus_ ," someone said in horror.

Sam practically threw himself off, and Clint staggered at the sudden release. He felt cold, all bereft of a warm, hard body. Sam was standing just a bit away, breathing like a marathon runner. That was good. At least it wasn't just Clint.

Beside and below him, Bucky was glancing between them with distinct exasperation, tinged heavily with disgust. "Can't you two get a room? Or at least do that where I'm not pinned?"

Sam straightened his shirt. "Glad to see you're awake again."

Clint adjusted his pants and ran a hand through his hair. Thankfully, Sam had avoided the bandages at the base of his skull. "Uh... yeah." It took everything he had to keep from jumping Sam once more. He took an abortive step toward Sam, then stopped himself. It helped that Sam took half a step back.

Christ, he'd pounced on the poor guy once. Didn't need a repeat. Embarrassment ran hot and heavy through him, killing any ardor he'd had. "I'm just -- gonna grab some pizza. I'll be back," he said, and fled the apartment.

**

Time had restored some of his hope. Bruce still trembled whenever he heard the door open, but he'd started to think through it.

They were getting lazy. When they came in to re-stock his fridge and diaper supplies they chatted with him amiably. He was waiting for the day when the guard at the door was just a little extra lax. When the maid entered with her key, instead of leaving it outside. He only needed a moment. 

The thought that the experiments would start again soon made him freeze in terror, made his heart rate rise. Like so many things in his life, he put it aside and refused to think about it. 

He checked Timoteo's leg, but other than a little redness it seemed all right. Bruce grimaced and hissed as he tried to adjust the cuff on his wrist to a less painful position, but it was too tight to do much more than rub and draw fresh blood. Sometimes that was good. It acted as a lubricant.

Timoteo began to wail again, and Bruce bounced him lightly, pacing across the floor. Bruce sang in a low, off-key voice, a little warbly, terribly accented, the only lullaby he'd heard often enough lately to remember. " _Aap khaaen thaalii men,_ " he began in Hindi, grateful the baby didn't care if he sang badly or if his voice cracked. 

He couldn't remember all the words, but that wasn't what mattered. Timoteo quieted slowly, still fussing but no longer wailing. That was good. That was _very_ good, because he'd wailed all night long, and Bruce was starting to feel the effects of fatigue. 

He kept singing, brushing his cheek across the soft, black hair, trying to calm himself as much as the baby.

He wasn't sure that anyone knew he was missing. Nat had come and gone from the desert site at random, and the HYDRA agents had assured him that all the SHIELD agents were dead now, anyway. He'd have to find a way out on his own. 

He'd tried wrenching his hand out of the cuff. He couldn't even get the cuff over the big bones of his wrist. He'd tried working it off Timoteo's leg, but the screaming that had resulted convinced him it wasn't possible. He'd tried picking the lock, but had no idea what he was doing. 

Timoteo began to cry again. 

"Shhh, shh," Bruce hushed, desperate for some peace. He adored Timoteo, as he adored babies everywhere, but at the same time hated him. If not for the baby, he wouldn't still be here. 

"It won't always be like this," Bruce promised. "They'll slip up sometime." The guard, Bruce thought, was his best bet.

Timoteo only cried harder. Bruce knew exactly how the little guy felt. He took a breath and began to sing again, voice husky and raw. " _Chandamama door ke, puye pakaayen boor ke..._ "

**

Sam kept his eyes on the spoonful of Cheerios as Steve and Nat came in off the fire escape. "Everything okay?" he asked, offering Bucky another bite.

Sam had to admit, Bucky was taking being trussed up and handfed in stride. Kind of surprisingly, actually.

"Sure," Nat answered. "Where's Clint?"

"Went to get pizza." Fled, was more like it, but Sam appreciated the space. 

Nat muttered something in Russian that made Bucky's eyebrows shoot up. She grabbed her jacket and Bucky said something to her -- also in Russian. She snapped at him and slammed the door behind her. 

"What was all that?" Steve asked finally, breaking the silence.

Bucky shook his head slightly, gaze shuttering. "She has a foul mouth." 

Steve crouched nearby. Sam hesitated. Keep feeding Bucky? Stop? It was all too awkward, now. Steve spoke. "When did you learn Russian? I mean, you always knew how to curse in a dozen languages, but that sounded like a whole sentence." His smile was encouraging.

Bucky stared at Sam's boots. "I don't remember cursing in a dozen languages. And I don't remember when I learned Russian. I--" His eyes widened briefly, then clenched shut. Sam put space between himself and Bucky automatically, but Bucky didn't lash out. He whimpered, teeth biting into his lip hard enough to make the skin around it bloodless. The sound he made was like a starving dog, kicked into submission. Steve wrapped big hands around Bucky's head, cradling him close as if Steve could shelter him from the mental storm. 

"It's okay," Steve whispered. "You're safe here, Buck. It's gonna be okay. This'll pass."

Sam inched away, set the bowl on the counter, and stepped out onto the fire escape to give the two men their privacy. 

He looked up and down the street with more habit than need, checking for any sign they were being watched. Below, Nat and Clint were coming back from the pizza place, Clint carrying three large pizza boxes. "So, what?" Clint asked, voice carrying even through the afternoon traffic. "He's gay? I don't think so. I'm telling you, I'm being manipulat--"

"Or bi." Nat's voice was harder to make out, but they were coming closer. "No one is manipulating you, Clint."

Clint muttered something Sam didn't catch. It rose slowly, as they walked nearly under the metal grate Sam stood on. "--Sam kissed me back, and I pretty much was molesting the guy. You can't tell me he's just randomly interested--"

Sam realized the topic of conversation, and prayed for patience. Their little band of insanity was spinning around Steve, and unraveling at the edges. "I'm not manipulating you, dumbass!" he shouted down.

Clint and Nat both stopped walking and looked up. Clint glowered, then kicked at a soda can. "So, what, you're gay?" Clint yelled up.

"Apparently confused!" Sam responded. A window slammed. A trio of girls on the street stopped to watch. "I was just distracting you," Sam said.

"Uh huh. And pinning me against the wall was...?"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. The girls were tittering, now. "--so cute!" he heard one of them say. "Could this not be a shouted conversation?" he shouted.

Clint spread his hands, boxes balanced on one palm. "Come on down and we'll talk, Juliet."

"Listen, circus boy--" Sam cut off when he saw Steve pop through the window, looking appalled and confused.

"Are you talking to Clint?" Steve asked.

Clint was down below, apparently trying to waggle his ass at Sam. Nat had left, the pizza boxes with her.

Sam took a steadying breath and ignored the way his blood was pounding in his face under all this scrutiny. "I know that your way of coping whenever you're freaked out is to pretend like it's all fun and games," he shot downward, "but for the love of God, get up here."

That barb struck. Clint glared at him, clearly displeased that someone could call him on his bullshit. Then he leaped for lowest rung of the fire escape, catching it and hauling himself upward. 

Sam stepped back against the building, feeling Steve's gaze on him. 

"What's going on?" Steve asked.

"Aw, c'mon Steve," Bucky said from inside, sounding more like he'd stepped out of the nineteen forties than Sam had ever heard. "Don't you recognize pansies when you see 'em?" 

Steve looked back at Bucky with surprise and hope, then glanced from Clint, rapidly climbing, to Sam, and back again. "Sam?"

"It's more complicated than that," Sam said, and then shot Steve a dark look. "Don't tell me you're all 'freedom and rights for all except gays'?"

Steve reared back as if struck. "No! I'm just... surprised." Then he shrugged. "I'd have picked someone a little more stable than Clint, but..." 

"Fuck you, too," Clint grunted, reaching the top. 

Steve ducked back inside. "Hey, Bucky, remember--" Sam heard, and tuned him out.

Clint shook out his arms, then reached into the pocket of his hoodie -- the same one Sam had loaned him -- and brought out a handful of silverware. Wordlessly, he offered it to Sam.

Sam took it, confused. "Nat has silverware."

"Plasticware, actually, but yeah, I know." Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair and glared down the alleyway. "I just... couldn't stop myself." He practically bounced through the window.

 _Jesus._ Sam went through the window, too, in time to see Nat putting pizza boxes on the counter. Sam paused just behind Clint. "Don't even _think_ of hoarding pizza in my hoodie," he murmured, and moved on. 

Bucky was free, again, metal arm dead weight in a sling. He was still avoiding peoples' gazes and lingering in corners -- specifically the corners where Nat was -- and he kept sneaking haunted, confused looks at Steve. Steve looked like he was trying _not_ to look put out.

"Assuming HYDRA tracked one of us to my house," Sam said, snagging pizza around Clint and moving on, "how worried do we need to be that they'll track us here?"

Steve leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. "Whatever they're after -- whether it's me, you, Nat, Clint's toy, or Bucky -- we need a secure base of operations."

Nat leaned against the wall, too, her shoulder close enough to brush against Bucky's metal arm. "We need someone to help deconstruct whatever they did to Barnes." She took a bite of pizza, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and added, "Both mental and physical."

"And maybe get me some more meds," Clint suggested hopefully. 

Nat spoke again. "It's about four hours to New York."

Sam and Steve both looked at her. Sam spoke first. "What's in New York?"

Nat bumped Bucky's arm. "The best engineer and computer whiz I know of." She tipped her head, acknowledging a flaw. "Or at least, one of his bases of operation."

"Stark Tower," Steve said. "You think Tony will help?"

"I think he'd better," Clint muttered darkly. 

Nat nodded. "He will."

**

Tony tried, and failed, to be drunk before they disembarked his jet. It wasn't the traffic in and around LaGuardia, but rather the open blue sky. 

Every time he looked up, he expected to see a hole. Every time a bird's shadow crossed, he flinched, expecting an alien. Even the sound of the planes taking off made him tense. 

Jane and Thor helped. They were so darn _cute_. It made him sick. It also made him miss Pepper.

"Pretty disgustingly adorable, aren't they?" Darcy asked cheerfully, slinging her backpack over one shoulder and joining him as he headed off the tarmac.

"Yup," Tony agreed. 

"Does it make you miss Pepper?"

He sighed and slid his sunglasses over his eyes. For five hundred dollar sunglasses, you'd think they'd do a better job. 

Darcy bumped his shoulder as they walked, making him stagger and turn a glare on her. She was oblivious. "Don't worry. Pepper said she'd meet us here, right?" Darcy turned a full circle, as if Pepper might be hiding behind them. "And Thor can kiss her feet."

"Hand," Tony corrected. He smirked. "I'm the only one who gets playtime with her feet."

"Okay, gross." 

His grin widened. "Don't knock it until you've tried--"

"Tony!"

That was his Pepper. He swung his garment bag around to drape it over Darcy's head, then lengthened his stride. "Pep!" It was the longest he'd been away since she'd been taken. And before that, the longest he'd been away -- well, he didn't want to think about it. It gave him commitment hives. 

He kissed her instead, heard the click of a camera, and turned to find Darcy with her cameraphone out again and his garment bag slung over her other arm. "Get a good shot?" he asked then, and leaning toward Pepper added, "She's like my personal puppy paparazzi."

"Of course," Pepper said dryly. She looped her arm through his, where it belonged, and escorted him back toward the others. "And you must be Jane, and Thor," she said with a warm smile. 

Pepper had a warm smile for everyone. Tony thought she'd have a warm smile for Loki, just before she slapped him with lawsuits, if she ever met him.

Thor, true to his word, dropped to his knee and scooped Pepper's hand in his. "My lady Potts!" he exclaimed. "I would be remiss if I did not confess that you are surely the most beauteous creature on Midguard, second only, of course, to my Lady Jane." He kissed Pepper's hand.

Tony practically jiggled, waiting to see if this would crack Pepper's composure. But she proved herself truly Pepper, smiled, and said, "Why thank you, Thor," then turned to look at Tony. "Nice try."

Darcy's cameraphone went off again. Pepper gave Tony a slow blink.

"Miss me?" he asked, grinning.

"Less every moment." But her eyes were sparkling. "Come on," she said to all of them. "I've arranged rooms for you all in Stark Tower, and a tour of the city tomorrow. I have people looking for Steve Rogers, so that should turn something up in the next few days. And I hope you like Italian; I ordered dinner figuring Tony would forget to feed you."

Jane laughed, and Thor swooped her around before setting her on her feet again. She looked flustered and pleased all at once, and Tony re-focused on Pepper. God, he was glad to have her back. 

"How are you holding up?" she asked quietly as they created some distance on the way to the limo. 

Tony wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "No anxiety attacks so far," he said with false cheer. "I hope you stocked up on the scotch."

"Of course. You know I support your self-medicating." She squeezed his hand. "We'll get through, Tony. We always do."

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway through, guys!


	9. Chapter 9

Words washed over and around him. He'd been able to focus on them for a little while, but eventually he'd gotten tired. He sat, trying not to get swept up in memory.

"Bucky?"

He looked up at the name they insisted on calling him, saw Steve looking at him with concern, saw a different Steve, a Steve in a helmet, yanking bindings off his arms. 

He tried to focus, but it all blurred together. He saw another man, older but also blond and blue eyed, and blood on his hands and the man telling him he'd done well, and now it was time to go under--

Someone touched him. He yelled and shoved them away, stumbling to his feet. 

"Easy," a voice said, while others broke into babble and then, suddenly, quiet. "Easy," the same voice said, compassionate and warm. 

He knew that voice. There was blood on his hands, and that voice, if the voice knew what he'd done, it wouldn't end well. 

_"Damn it, Steve!"_ memory said. _"Why d'you always have to get involved? Midge isn't going to be impressed when I pick her up with this shiner!"_

_"You didn't have to break it up, Bucky." Then a smile, and the hand on his shoulder that made it better even if it wasn't really better. "But thanks."_

"Easy, Bucky." 

He had blood on his hands.

A female voice cracked through the confusion. "Report, Solider." 

He could focus on that. Pinprick clear, like following a line. It was a woman's face, though, not his handler's. Not one of the generals or the doctors. He knew her face. He knew--

"Nat," he croaked. 

She nodded once, slowly. "You know where you are?"

"Yes," he whispered, because he thought he did. He took a step toward her, and then another. He could feel a presence at his side, but couldn't bear to look at it. He reached out and touched Nat, felt the anchor, felt the world come rushing back. He let his head fall, forehead against hers, and felt her steady him with light fingers on his elbow. "I killed that little girl," he whispered. The memory was sharp and clear, just like that. Sighting down the scope, next to the corpses that had been their armed guards, listening to the alarms blaring and knowing no one would stop him in time. 

She said nothing. There was nothing to say, not really. In a pool where his memories kept getting swept away, that one lodged like a rock. Everything eddied around it. The ripples spread outward, and between them he saw more rocks. More kills glimpsed here and there, then gone again. He shuddered. 

"Keep breathing," Nat told him. "That's all you can do right now." 

He breathed in her scent, and focused on that. The way her hair was dry under his fingers, and the shape of her skin. 

His awareness stilled, and finally began to grow again. Voices murmured in the background. He opened his eyes, blinking at Nat. 

"You okay?" she asked softly.

He nodded and pulled away from her. "I think so." He looked up, and saw two men (Clint and Sam; both possible targets) loading up the pizza boxes. Another man stood nearby, obviously trying not to watch them. 

Steve. 

_"Midge isn't going to be impressed when I pick her up with this shiner!"_

_"You didn't have to break it up, Bucky. But thanks."_

Oh, God. Bucky pushed away from Nat and headed toward the bathroom, in case he puked. He heard Steve follow, felt Steve's presence at the door as he sat on the toilet and took deep breaths.

"Buck?" The voice was hesitant.

"You should have let me die," Bucky snarled. _He'd killed that little girl--_

"In case you forgot," Steve said on a humorless laugh, "You saved me. You fished me out of the Poto--"

"Not then." Bucky pressed the heel of his hand into his temple. The memories swam around him sickeningly. "Before all this. Back when you were just a dancer. You should have left me there." 

Steve's hand wrapped around his wrist, and he opened his eyes to look down into his best friend kneeling there, looking hopeful and determined and so very _Steve_. "You remember that? I couldn't leave you there, Bucky. I can't leave you now, either. We're gonna get through this." 

His earnestness was killing Bucky. "I did horrible things," Bucky said, begging him to understand. To _go_. 

"I know." Steve nodded. "I'm sorry." 

Steve couldn't know. Steve couldn't possibly even grasp them, because Steve had always been the good guy, even when he was too small to win, and Bucky was soiled and filthy and bloody from the murders he'd committed. Bucky shoved him back, hard, but it only rocked Steve onto his heels. "You don't know!" Bucky shouted. "You can't know, Steve! I killed people, innocents, _kids_ who didn't deserve to die but it sent a message, or they were collateral damage, or--"

Yelling made his head hurt. He clutched at it as the pain spiked, breathing through his teeth.

And there was Steve again, God _damn_ it, gripping his head and speaking into his ear so he couldn't escape it. "I know. You did awful things. You had no control over that, and what matters now isn't what you _did_ , but what you _do_ going forward. You can do this, Bucky." 

Bucky keened and tried to shake his head. "I can't do this. Put a bullet in me."

Steve's words were hard and unforgiving. "You can _do_ this, and you aren't leaving me here alone!"

They sat there, with Steve's hands so tight they hurt, and their breath mingling between them. The memories slowed. "You need to brush your teeth," Bucky said at last.

Steve laughed, but it sounded forced. "So do you." Steve's grip eased. He sat back slowly. "How much do you remember?"

Bucky sat back, too, leaning against the tank of the toilet. "Too much." Not enough. 

But Steve only nodded. And in the depths of his eyes, Bucky saw hope. Bucky thought he was a fool.

**

Bruce's heartbeat spiked when his door opened. He tried to think of deep pools of water, and when Timoteo cried he loosened his grip. 

"Relax, Bruce," the doctor said, patting the air soothingly with both hands. "I promised you a reprieve, and you're getting one. We won't be doing any more threshold tests for a while." 

"Threshold tests," he said, his anger barely leashed. "You mean torture." The other guy rolled over, and Bruce closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose and out his mouth carefully. He _thought_ about his heartbeat, thought about slowing it, thought about cooling streams and the smiling eyes of a woman behind a hijab. 

"It's for you own good, Bruce. Every treatment comes with some pain. A needle through the skin. Bone marrow extractions. Chemotherapy or HIV cocktails. When we're done, you'll no longer have to wonder if you're a danger to society."

Bruce's eyes snapped open. There were nurses in the hall, and the ever present security guards. "What are you going to do?" Alarm cracked through his voice.

The doctor was setting up IV bags beside Bruce's bed. "It's simple, really. We're going to give you a pacemaker. One for your heart, one for your brain. It'll help stimulate or reroute the activation in the area we believe triggers the transformation. You'll be under control." 

It was a brilliant idea. It wouldn't work. 

"You think the other guy will stay docile while you cut me open?" Bruce asked, his voice pitching higher than he meant. He backed toward the door, only to stumble when two of the nurses shouldered past him. They were setting up operating equipment. "I know you think you've done well controlling the other guy, but I've been consciously doing it, and if you think I'm going to be able to control him while you're cutting through my body--"

"You'll be sedated," the doctor said reassuringly.

Everyone was going to die. The doctor, the guards, the nurses -- Bruce hated them so much he didn't feel terrible about that. But the janitors, the woman who brought his food, the staff who had nothing to do with him? Timoteo. 

Timoteo cried as if he knew what was going on. His tiny face was red and angry, hands curled into fists. Bruce bounced him automatically. 

"Sedation won't work like you think," Bruce said, desperation lending speed to his words. "It doesn't work on the other guy--"

"Bruce, calm down," the doctor said.

"Calm down? You've got to be kidding me!" He was near the door. Two guards. He slammed backward, hoping he'd take them by surprise. He crashed into one, twisted, tried to get a clear shot down the hall--

But the one wasn't off-balance enough. She grabbed him, stalling him. Timoteo cried with great hiccuping gulps. The other guy surged. The second guard kicked Bruce's knee. Bruce dropped. The other guy roared inside him, flinging against the protections Bruce had in place. Bruce set Timoteo on the floor none too gently, grasping for control. Timoteo would be a smear if the other guy broke loose. He couldn't do that.

Cool rivers. Smiling eyes. Great canyons. The ocean. Sunlight through leaves. 

The sharp prick of a needle. Bruce's arms burst. His skin greened. Muscles tore and reformed. 

_No, no,_ he begged, closing his eyes, pressing his forehead to the cool tile floor. _No._ Timoteo screamed. A little foot battered at his temple. He grabbed it, inhaled the baby-scent. _No. Let the sedative take hold. Please. Please._

It did. His heartbeat slowed. Rivers. Smiles. Canyons. Ocean. Leaves. He focused on the way the ocean breeze left a salt mist across his skin, and not the way his muscles were popping and growing. Now shrinking.

Oh, thank God, they were shrinking. 

The other guy rumbled unhappily. He was seething. Bruce could feel it. "He isn't going to let you perform surgery," Bruce mumbled to the floor as the sedative took hold. 

"Just relax," the doctor said, and Bruce supposed it was meant to be soothing, but it was only condescending. "Everything will be fine."

**

The decision had been made: they'd head to Stark Tower, leave Nat's apartment and car to anyone who'd tracked them there, and hope Tony could do something about Bucky's arm. 

Nat drove the rental, with Steve and Bucky in the middle seats. 

Sam knew that either he or Clint would end up in front, and he still hadn't had a chance to pull Clint aside. He did so while they soothed and loaded Bucky, grabbing Clint's arm and catching his eyes. "We gonna talk about our little shouted conversation?" Sam asked quietly.

"Not if I can help it," Clint answered, and pulled his arm free.

Sam caught him again, with a glance toward the others. Steve was buckling in. Nat was sliding into the driver's seat. " _You_ kissed _me_ the first time," Sam pointed out.

"You kissed me the last time," Clint hissed. "And I've got way too much shit going on in my head to be handling some bi-curious straight guy who doesn't know what he wants!"

That stung. Sam let him go. What was worse, was that it was probably true. "Shit," Sam muttered, and climbed into the SUV. 

"It's a four-hour drive, give or take," Nat said as she adjusted the mirrors. 

"Three and a half, the way you drive," Clint muttered from the passenger seat. Sam studied him, though behind dark sunglasses Clint had managed to shutter his expression. 

Bucky sat, stiff and still, pale and with his arm in the make-shift sling. They didn't have enough of those little disks to make it all the way to New York. Sam hoped Nat really did drive that fast.

**

Bruce woke. The other guy was heaving to the fore. Machines screeched, people yelled, and it smelled like fear. 

Bruce's heart burst. Even before the doctor started speaking, he knew they'd triggered the shift. He ignored the doctor's words. Heard and ignored someone shouting to inject the paralytic they'd been using on him. Closed his eyes, trying to shake off whatever they'd given him to wake him so suddenly. 

_No. No. Everything is safe now. They know they can't hurt us. No._ It was a litany, a mantra, the only thing he could think of that might possibly slow the other guy down. He should have felt panic that the other guy was going to squash everyone, but he felt relief.

_They can't hurt us. They can't control us. You taught them. Please, stand down. Be calm. It's safe now. We're safe now._

Against all his expectations, his heart stopped tearing. The feeling of his eyeballs popping receded. His breathing went from sounding like a wind tunnel to sounding like a human catching his breath. He thought about rivers and oceans and smiling eyes, but most of all he thought love and peace and thankfulness toward the other guy. 

HYDRA couldn't control them. 

The other guy rolled over and went, grumbling, to rest.

By the time Bruce opened his eyes, the room was empty except for the doctor and Timoteo. 

Bruce licked dry lips, tried to swallow though he had no spit, and fixed a gaze that didn't want to focus on the doctor. "You wouldn't even take the baby?" he croaked.

The doctor stepped away from the wall and picked up a glass of water. He was white-faced, tight lipped. "I was sure you'd control it," he said, though the flick of his eyes and the gray around his jawline belied that answer. "And if you did, we'd need _you_ back under control again." He slid his hand under Bruce's head and lifted, holding the glass of water to his lips. "Drink."

Bruce wanted to stab him. Both arms were strapped down, as if that would stop the other guy. He drank, considered spitting the water at the doctor, and didn't. He let his gaze do the slaughtering, instead. "How long?" he asked once he'd swallowed. 

The doctor gave him a quizzical look and set the glass down nearby. 

"How long since..." Bruce licked his lips, and this time was more successful. "You dumb shits nearly released the monster?" It felt good to swear. He did it so rarely. 

"We didn't let you turn," the doctor said. "It was successful. Now we know that cutting your skin even when you're sedated won't work. It was a step forward in science--"

"How long?" Bruce nearly yelled. 

"Temper, please. An hour." The doctor checked his watch. "Maybe a little more." 

An hour to calm the other guy. He'd never lasted more than a few seconds, once the other guy wanted out. Once injury or panic took over. So the time in the desert (and maybe even the time here, he had to admit) had done _some_ good. 

He'd pulled back the Hulk. Over the span of an hour, he'd pulled back the Hulk.

Timeteo was unnaturally quiet.

"What did you do to him?"

"Sedated him, too. We didn't want squalling to disturb anyone's efforts. Don't worry. It's a light sedation; he's all right. Conscious."

Bruce glared at the ceiling tiles. "Unstrap me and go."

"Bruce--"

"Don't call me that. I'm not your _friend_ ," Bruce snarled. "I'm not your _partner_ or _co-author_. I'm your fucking experiment, and I'm the only thing standing between you and the monster that wants to rip you to pieces. Unstrap me. And go."

The doctor unstrapped him. Then left.

**

Steve sat by Bucky's metal arm, where he could replace a disk whenever one ran out. He timed it carefully, leaving each dead disk in place for a random amount of time before he put on a new one. He didn't want Bucky able to tell exactly how long they lasted. They needed more time to get to New York, and the best way for that to happen to was to take a calculated risk. 

The silence was uncomfortable for the first ten minutes. Steve was too focused on Bucky to make conversation, Bucky was staring with flat eyes out the window, and neither Nat nor Clint were exactly chatterboxes. 

"So," Sam said at last. "Your family coming to town any time soon, Clint?"

Clint twisted in the front seat. "You're a riot." 

Steve glanced quickly from one to the other, but it was Nat who explained. "Clint's a circus brat." 

Bucky leaned forward, in between the front seats. "You grew up in the circus?" He turned to look a question at Steve, and Steve ached with relief to see some life in blue-gray eyes. "Is that normal now?" Bucky asked.

Steve shrugged, drinking in the sight of his friend. "I really have no idea."

"No," Clint snapped. "It's not normal."

A smile lurked around the corners of Bucky's mouth, the look so familiar it made Steve's heart ache. "So," Bucky teased, "you're just all kinds of strange. Grew up in a circus, assassinate by bow, bang guys--"

Clint went still in the front seat. "How do you know I assassinate by bow?"

Bucky's smile stutter-skipped. Confusion swirled. 

"Easy," Steve said. "Probably someone mentioned it." No one had mentioned it, but something ugly was growing in the skin under Bucky's shoulder blades. 

"Steve..." he said quietly.

Clint twisted to try and look at them all. "Shit. Shit! I don't want this nutcase behind me--"

Nat glanced sharply at him, swerving around a little Toyota as she did so. "Clint, calm down." 

"Pull over," Clint said.

"There's no place to pull over--"

Bucky's eyes were going flat. "Steve," he breathed. 

Steve checked his internal clock, relieved to know the disk was still keeping Bucky's metal arm dead at his side. Steve locked gazes with Bucky and refused to listen to the argument happening in the front. "Bucky, you're all right. Stay here with me." 

Bucky's nostrils flared as he breathed, his pupils darkening.

Appealing to his friend hadn't worked great. "Listen to me, solider," Steve said, low and unforgiving. "You stay right here with us. You hear me? Repeat the order back."

"Stay here," Bucky said numbly.

Ah, horsefeathers, Clint was _climbing out the window_ in the front seat, while Nat hissed at him to _stop being insane_. Steve held Bucky's gaze. The car swerved to the side of the road, rumbling over the gravel shoulder and rolling to a stop while traffic whipped past. 

"I got this," Sam said, opening the side door and squeezing past. 

Bucky's gaze started to stray, following the movement, and Steve grabbed his chin and yanked his head back. "You're with me," Steve said firmly. "Remember?"

"Stay here," Bucky repeated. His gaze was starting to thaw a little. A plea lurked in the back, though Steve wasn't sure what Bucky was pleading for.

"Go," Sam said, shoving Clint in before him and slamming the door closed behind. They snapped seatbelts into place, and Nat peeled onto the freeway. 

"We got this," Sam murmured -- Steve was sure he wasn't supposed to hear that -- and Clint jerked.

"Don't touch me." That, Steve was pretty sure the whole car heard. 

Slowly, Bucky began to relax. His lids lowered, and the stiffness bled out of his shoulders. "We got a lot of those little zappers, right?" Bucky murmured.

"As many as you need," Nat said confidently. "And we'll be in New York soon." 

**

"Sir," JARVIS said, breaking into the conversation. "I believe there is a problem at the Tower." 

Tony looked pointedly at Pepper. "That's all you. It's your Tower." 

Pepper looked heavenward and picked up her StarkPhone, turning away from the little group.

Thor swished ale in his pint, leaning on one arm. "Do you always try to push the odious tasks to others?"

"Your girlfriend?" Jane added. "Really?"

Tony waved a hand at Pepper. "She's used to it." 

"That is vile," Thor said, rumbling a laugh as he put one massive arm around Jane's shoulders and pulled her close. 

Tony lifted one eyebrow, amused. "And yet you feel the need to keep Jane from me. Clearly, my tactics are working."

"He's _protecting_ me from--" Jane began, grinning, but then Pepper cut in.

"Our search for the others is over." She slipped the phone into her purse. "It seems they've arrived at the Tower, with a few extra guests. Tony, they need your help." Even as she said the last she was smiling politely toward the bartender, already gesturing for the bill. "We won't need dinner after all, thank you," she told him, signing a slip of paper that, Tony knew, would come out of his account. That was as it should be. 

He pulled his jacket on, not at all sure how he felt about greeting his so-called "brothers and sisters in arms" after all this time. They had, after all, left him to deal with Killian on his own. If even the President didn't deserve Steve's attention... 

As they slid into the limo, Pepper handed him her phone. "They brought you something."

He pulled the screen away from his face to see it better. He stared for a minute, then began scrolling and zooming in. "I take it all back," he muttered. "Steve brings me the best presents." 

Jane leaned close to see what he was looking at. "Whoa," she breathed.

Tony flicked the image onto his own phone -- a prototype, of course -- then laid the phone flat and flicked the photo into holographic image in the car. 

A man stood, bearded and long-haired, bare chested, with one arm hanging limp at his side. The arm was metal, smooth and shiny and banded. "How does it work?" Tony asked himself. "That's one hell of a prosthesis." He turned the image, noting the lack of any obvious attachment, the clean line where it joined shoulder. "Step on it, Happy," he called to the front. "I need to get to my shop."

**

He stood at a window, looking down at the streets below. So many people he could hurt. So many people he _had_ hurt. The guilt was almost suffocating. There were more and more rocks in the river, bruising him. He pressed his hand to the glass and briefly, wondered. If he threw himself out, would he survive the fall? 

"I'm sliding," he said to the room at large, knowing it didn't matter who heard. Clint had left to prowl the hallways, and then Sam had gone after him. It was only himself, Nat, and Steve left. 

"Hang onto us," Steve said, coming near.

The cold from the window made the small bones in his hand ache. He pressed his forehead to the glass and imagined he could feel it bend. Below, cars and people trundled past. Half of the buildings were patched or entirely new. A block south one building had been demolished, but not yet rebuilt. They'd passed many such areas, interspersed with old towers that hadn't been harmed. 

Knowledge hissed at the back of his mind. The Battle for New York had involved an alien invading force, with weapons and flying bugs. His target was the man in red, white, and blue, and the woman--

No.

He closed his eyes tight against that. Steve spoke, but it wasn't helping. He banged his forehead lightly against the glass, as if he could bang out the orders growing louder in his mind.

No. He wasn't supposed to hunt Steve down. He didn't need to kill Captain America. There was no threat. None. 

His metal arm twitched and lifted, hand pressing against the glass. He looked at it in horror. "Tie me," he said hoarsely. "Now." Before he killed someone. 

"Bucky, you can do this," Steve continued to murmur. He wanted to wrap his metal fingers around that throat and choke off the words, and the orders drumming through his mind were getting more insistent. He growled at them, heard the growl turn to a roar, and reached to grab Steve --

Only to have his legs swept out from under him. Something cracked against his metal arm, and a moment later his arm was pinned to the metal beams that went floor to ceiling along the giant windows. Natasha. Of course. He let the desire to fight, to kill, wash through him. He stopped trying to mash it down and just let it come, felt Captain America sit on him and keep him from hurting them while Nat noosed a rope around one of his legs.

He fought. Of course he fought, because even if he didn't want to he _had_ to. They said he had to. But his heart wasn't in it, and when he didn't have to struggle against the urge, it passed through and left him tired and weak. And relieved. 

He was trussed up again, and that was all right. He felt safe, bound so he couldn't hurt anyone. The desire to be calm and obedient rose in the back of his mind where the need to kill Captain America came from, and that made him vaguely ill. 

He didn't want to admit as much to Steve. He couldn't look at Steve. Instead, he looked at Nat. She sat nearby, her legs crossed, waiting for him. He gave her a little smile. She gave him one back. He rested his head against the carpet, arm stretched above him, and drifted.

**


	10. Chapter 10

Tony breezed out of the elevator, mask firmly in place, the excitement at this fabulous new piece of technology buoying him forward. "You bring me the _best_ toys," he declared as he entered the conference room that Steve and the Bionic Man had been put in. The sight of Steve and Natasha made his blood pressure rise, made ugly memories of aliens surge forth, made the resentment that they'd been nowhere when he'd been saving the damn President bubble to the surface. He tried to hide it and focused on the man pinned to his glass and steel wall. Tony's eyebrows rose. "Did I interrupt something? Did you three need a minute?"

"This isn't a game, Stark." Steve's voice was just as repressive as it had been when they'd first met. It scratched on Tony's nerves.

"I'm sorry," Tony said, a bite to his words. "Who came to whom for help?" 

Natasha spoke, one word. "Tony." 

The scruffy, unkempt man with the metal arm was watching him with big eyes above a truly impressive amount of facial hair, and below a truly disgusting mass of greasy head hair. 

"Did none of you bathe? You, don't even think about leaving a scent-stain on my carpets." He gestured to the hobo, coming closer while skirting around Steve. 

Steve wasn't going to be skirted around, though. With three long strides he'd caught up to Tony and grabbed his arm. "Tony, this isn't the time for levity."

Tony froze. He looked pointedly at his held arm, then slowly up to Steve. "You want to let go, boy scout?" 

Steve stared at him. He stared right back. A muscle jumped in Steve's jaw. Tony didn't back down.

"Boys," Nat drawled, but they were both too locked in to heed her.

Before she could say anything else, the elevator opened again. 

"You couldn't wait for the rest of us?" Pepper asked mildly, and both Steve and Tony turned to look at her. She smiled as if they weren't locked in a mortal battle of wills and deftly held her hand out to Steve. "You must be Captain Rogers. It's a pleasure."

He had to let go to shake her hand. Tony stepped away stiffly, crossing his arms over his t-shirt.

"And Natasha, how good to see you again," Pepper continued, brushing between Steve and Tony. Then she smiled down at the hobo. "And our guest is...?"

"Bucky," Steve said tightly.

Bucky -- what the hell sort of name was that? -- was watching them like a hunted animal, with Nat standing between him and everyone else. 

"Captain!" Thor said, crossing the room with Jane and Darcy in his wake, smiling and clapping Steve's shoulder. "It is good, indeed, to see you, though I am sorry it had to be under such circumstances. This is my lady, Jane, and her companion, Darcy."

Both women smiled, Darcy brassy and bold, Jane tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. 

"But I know you have work to do," Thor said, glancing from Tony to Bucky and back to Steve, "so we'll leave our tidings for another time. I hope to see you all, and your comrade, in better spirits soon." 

Tony tuned them out as they said their goodbyes and distracted Steve for a blessed moment. Tony tugged at the knees of his pants as he crouched just out of range of the tied man. "Is this really necessary?" he asked Nat and Bucky at once.

"Yes," they both answered, but Bucky gave Nat a helpless look. 

First problems first, then. "Why?"

Nat and Bucky shared a look, then Nat gave Steve a hard stare over Tony's head while Bucky began to talk haltingly. "The arm -- is dangerous. When I have flashbacks -- I can't --" He swallowed, barely visible under the hair, and stopped talking.

"Right," Tony said. "We disable it, and then it won't be so dangerous?"

He was pretty sure he imagined the leap of hope in Bucky's eyes. Pretty sure. He shuffled Pepper out of the way, moving to where the arm was pinned against the steel beam, silently impressed despite himself at the creativity. "What's the power source?"

"No idea," Nat said. "But a static charge knocks it out just like any other computer." 

Tony rubbed his hands together. This would be fun.

**

They'd left Bruce alone for a full day. He watched Timoteo nurse off the bottle he'd warmed, big brown eyes watching Bruce right back. A little mouth sucked hard on the rubber nipple, heartbeat and lungs strong and belly filling. 

"I'm going to find you a good home," Bruce promised. It was easier to think about something like that than how, exactly, he was going to escape. 

They'd shaved his head in preparation for the brain surgery that hadn't happened. The air from the ducts felt odd on his skull. He'd considered the ducts the first day he'd gotten here as a way to escape, but they were small; no bigger than you'd see in most houses. 

The door opened, and he tried hard not to move. Not to disturb the baby. His eyes flicked up to stare with hatred at the doctor who walked in.

The doctor smiled and pulled a chair over. The door closed on two guards in the hall. Maybe, Bruce thought, he could take the doctor as a hostage and--

He had no idea how he was going to take the doctor as a hostage. Maybe if he had both hands free, but he didn't.

"We were thinking," the doctor said, "that if we used a local anesthetic and kept you conscious for the surgery, our mental pacemaker might just work." 

Timoteo unlatched and began to fuss. Bruce relaxed his grip, bouncing the infant gently. His voice stayed soft. "I can't keep hold of the other guy while you cut my brain open."

The doctor patted the air with his hands in a calming gesture. "First, we're going to see if we can't simply deaden that part of your brain. Temporarily, of course." 

Bruce had never had a fear of needles before. He ignored the lurch in his stomach. "Don't you think I've tried that? It won't work." 

The doctor smiled and stood. "With the strides you've made controlling the Hulk, I think it's worth a shot. Well done, by the way." 

**

"Sir Hawk!"

Clint whipped around and couldn't keep his look of surprise from showing. Thor was even bigger than he remembered, and the diminutive woman at his side didn't help. 

Thor smiled broadly and came closer, holding a hand out. Clint met him automatically, then rocked when Thor clapped him on the other shoulder. 

"It is by fair chance we meet here! This is my lady, Jane, and her companion, Darcy. And who, pray tell, is your friend?"

Clint turned to look at Sam, who'd stood and set his magazine down. Clint grinned and introduced, "This is Sam. Sam, this is Thor, prince of Asgard, God of Thunder, sworn protector of Midgard." He'd done his homework while he'd been on sick leave. 

With every title, Sam's expression of disbelief grew. "Riiiight," he said at last, then smiled and held out his hand to Thor. "Good to meet you."

"The honor is mine," Thor said, and seemed to mean it. "Any companion of the Avengers is a fellow well met." 

"And I'm always happy to meet a prince-god." 

Thor's blue eyes crinkled in good humor. "Nay, Sam, here I am but Thor." He looked back and put his arm around Jane. "Lover to Jane!"

Jane blushed and shook her head at him, then smiled at Clint and Sam. "So, what's with the guy with the prosthetic arm?" she asked. 

Darcy flopped down onto the couch near Sam. "He was all tied up. Is that how you guys roll? Because I can work with that, but..."

"He goes crazy and tries to kill people occasionally," Clint said. There was a moment of silence that Clint didn't break.

"But he's getting better," Sam said at last. 

Jane glanced from one of them to the other. "That's... good." 

Movement and a projectile caught Clint's attention, and he ducked and blocked all at once. The magazine fell harmlessly to the floor, and Sam settled back down. "You're such a dick," Sam laughed. 

Clint relaxed slowly and offered a smile of his own. "Is there any food around here?"

"Indeed, this way," Thor said, gesturing toward the hall. A silent conversation flew between Thor and Jane before he turned and led the way, leaving behind Sam and the two women. 

Clint's skin prickled. Thor was Loki's brother. Was there a reason he wanted Clint alone? How well did they really know the Asgardians? He played back their exchange, trying to find anything unusual. 

Thor's voice, when he spoke, kept to quiet, solemn tones. There was no smile in him now, but a deep and abiding concern. "I had wondered how you fared, after my brother's vile use of you. I am glad to see you on your feet, Sir Hawk."

"Just Clint," Clint muttered, twitchy with a title he didn't deserve. "And I'm fine." 

Thor gave one nod. "Loki perished in the defense of the universe, paying for his sins and bringing redemption through his death." 

They rounded a corner and there was a little kitchen, clearly meant for staff. More clearly because several people saw them and left. Clint turned, watching them suspiciously until they were truly gone.

"I hope you don't expect me to offer you condolences," Clint bit out. The fact that Loki was dead was a hell of a relief.

Then again, that meant the whispers in his mind were only in his mind. Jesus.

"I don't." Thor leaned against a counter, bracing his hands on either side of his hips. In jeans and a T-shirt, he still didn't look quite human. "I thought perhaps the knowledge would give you some sense of closure."

He watched Thor while he snagged a handful of crackers out of a box, tucking them into his pockets. What he couldn't decide was whether or not Thor was grieving. If Barney died tomorrow, Clint wasn't sure how he'd feel about it. 

He opened cupboards, found bread and peanut butter, and started making a sandwich. "I have a brother," he said at last. "A real fuck-up." Thor tipped his head politely. "I mean, I'm fucked up," Clint gave a little shrug -- it was true -- "but he is _fucked up_." He stopped there, because he wasn't sure how to continue. He liked to think that if Barney dropped dead, he wouldn't care. He didn't know if that was true. 

"Brothers can be a trial," Thor said. "But Loki was my boon companion when we were young. He caused trouble and got me out of trouble. He was a friend to whisper secrets to that only another young prince would understand." 

Clint listened, trying not to think of Barney. Of the years before the circus, when Barney had been his protector and friend. Whispering things only another abused kid could understand. The early years in the circus, before things had gone so wrong between them. 

He shook his head. He didn't want to think of the creep who'd mind-raped him as someone's loving brother. He cut his sandwich in half and tucked one side in his hoodie pocket, eating the other. "I'm sorry," he said, and realized he meant it.

Thor gave him a sad little smile. "What is good for the realm is not always what is good for the individual." Then he took a breath, clearly shaking himself out of it. "He died nobly, and is surely in Valhalla. That is all one can ask." 

**

It was generous of Pepper to offer them rooms, Steve had to admit. Especially given the way their numbers had swelled. 

He stood in the bedroom doorway with Bucky, watching. Nat had left to find Clint and Sam, Tony had taken his scans of Bucky's arm and vanished, and he didn't know where the others had gotten off to.

Bucky looked around the room slowly, his metal arm carried in a sling. There was a gentleness about him that hadn't been there until Tony had, as Steve understood it, turned the metal arm off. It was more complex than that -- it always was -- but that was the gist of it. 

Bucky peered into the en suite bathroom and sighed. "I think," he said wistfully, "I'd like a shower." 

They didn't have any changes of clothes. Steve smiled anyway. "I bet I can get your stuff laundered while you clean up."

Bucky scratched blunt, broken nails through his beard. "And a razor?"

"Probably." He'd go to all the way to Brooklyn if he had to.

"That'd be nice."

"Give me your clothes," Steve said, glancing in the shower to check for shampoo and soap. It was there, along with towels, a loofa, a washcloth, and some fancy lotions. 

Bucky was stripping down, the modesty they'd both lost in the army clearly having stayed away. He was too thin, with smooth, impossibly unblemished skin except for the way it knotted around the metal arm. 

"You okay on your own for a bit?" Steve asked, just to be sure.

Bucky looked down, then up, and gave a little smile. "Sure. Take a lot of effort to kill someone now." 

Not a lot, Steve didn't say. He just nodded, returned the smile, then gathered up Bucky's clothes. There had to be a laundromat close by.

**

Bruce flexed against his bonds, knowing that he couldn't break free. He'd tried every time, and every time he'd failed. 

They strapped his head into a metal brace, ensuring he couldn't move, and deadened the back of his skull with a local anesthetic. They'd gagged him. Apparently, his pleas and warnings of what would happen if they unleashed the other guy disconcerted the nursing staff.

Timeteo was in a twilight stupor. Bruce couldn't see him -- all Bruce could see was the floor -- but the familiar pain of the cuff was somehow reassuring. 

"All right, Bruce," the doctor said from behind a surgical mask. "Try to take deep, slow breaths. You'll feel a little sting..."

A needle pressed against the skin at the back of his neck. He knew the part of his brain that lit up when the other guy began to wake, knew it was at the base of his skull near the hippocampus. Knew that there were a lot of other parts that lit up, too.

It was disturbing to him that most of this, he knew because of these doctors. He'd never had the chance before to study his own brain while he verged on becoming the other guy. 

Numbness spread along his skin. He bellowed in objection, wordless because of the gag, willing them to stop. Something whirred, high-pitched like a drill, and his heartbeat spiked. 

"Get control of that, Bruce." 

He didn't. They were going to drill into his head, to make a needle hole to dump chemicals into his brain to stop the other guy. He let his heart patter frantically against his ribcage. 

The doctor spoke into his ear, low and angry. "Bruce, if you're thinking of playing some form of chicken with us, you should know that we can vacate the area. The infant can't. Re-think your strategy, Doctor."

Anger and impotence slithered through him. He hated that they were right. For a moment more, he let his heart race out of control. Then he took a deep breath through his nose, focusing on banking the physical response of his anger. 

The machines around him beeped at a less frantic rate. Shoes, wrapped in surgical booties, came back into his field of vision. 

The drill turned back on. 

A hand settled between his shoulder blades. "Try to relax, Bruce. You shouldn't feel much." 

He felt the vibrations through his entire skull as the drill touched bone.

**

Tony was drinking when Pepper found him. He snatched his glass of scotch off the desk lest she steal it, and went back to his holographic images. "JARVIS, try stripping out this AI here, and replacing it with StarkTech." The arm was, really, a modern miracle. The shoulder joint itself was built on old tech, but the arm had been upgraded and updated until it was a beaming piece of machinery. 

"Whoever did this," Tony told Pepper, "was a mad genius."

She plucked his glass out of his hand. "You have guests upstairs. We're all getting together for dinner. I ordered Chinese."

He didn't bother trying to get his glass back; he knew she wouldn't relinquish it. Instead, he picked up his silver canister of protein drink and chugged that. "I'm a little busy here. Send 'em my regards."

"Tony." Said as if he knew better.

He rubbed his free hand over his brow. "I hate New York. I hate it. Let me work. I can focus on my work, and--"

"Tony." Compassionate, this time. _Damn_ it. Pepper's compassion was always his undoing, and she knew that and used it unfairly. She stepped up and wrapped her hands around his waist, stilling him. "Have a drink," she said. "Self-medicate. But come upstairs. We'll get through this."

He leaned his forehead against hers. "What would I do without you?"

She smiled. It did wonderful things to her eyes. "Fade away into nothingness." She kissed him lightly and then slid away, linking her hand with his and tugging him along. 

**

Nat was aware of everyone. Clint stood in the far corner of the great room, keeping the entire crowd in sight. The way his eyes twitched, the way his fingers were tense on his glass, the way he didn't drink told her he was having a hard time. No surprise, there. 

Sam lingered near him, a silent shield though no one had asked him to be. He'd taken it up on his own, and Clint didn't seem to mind. 

Jane and Darcy were keeping the two men company, Darcy playing host and refilling drinks or offering new ones when Clint didn't drink his, while Jane kept up a steady stream of conversation. Nat wondered if they knew they were such a good team.

Tony and Thor spoke in the corner, as easy as if they'd spent the last week together. Nat suspected they had. 

"Why drink if it doesn't affect you?" Tony asked, voice carrying.

"I like the taste," Thor laughed, as if Tony were silly to ask, and Nat tuned them out. 

The elevator doors pinged open and the last of their group walked in, the ones Nat had been waiting for. She'd been leery of leaving Steve and Barnes alone together, but Barnes had given her a silent nod. The man who'd been afraid of Steve was slowly fading away.

The man who entered in Steve's shadow, lingering behind, looked entirely different. Clean shaven, in clean clothes, with clean hair that he'd tied back from his face, Barnes looked less like a schizophrenic homeless man and more a killer in sheep's clothes. He had a tan line, Nat saw, across the bridge of his nose. The muzzle he'd worn had left its mark.

He saw her and offered a smile, and she could see a ghost of the friend that Steve had once known. He edged toward her the way he had in the garage, as if she might bolt or as if he might have to act. 

"You look good," she said, and heard the surprise in her own voice.

He chuckled and looked down at his ratty clothes. "That's an overstatement, but..." He sniffed his own shirt. "At least I don't smell." 

He did smell, though, of soap and fabric softener. She searched his expression, looking for the Solider who'd lingered so close to the surface. He was there, still, in the way Barnes carried himself, in the hard planes of his face, the scars that left uncertainty in his eyes. But he wasn't in control. 

She gave him a smile. "It's good to see you."

He settled a little at that, slanting her a sidelong look. "It's good to see you, too." Then he looked at the room at large. "Is this everyone, then? The Avengers?"

Tony, apparently catching the question, barked a laugh. "I guess so! And their lovely support staff," he said, gesturing to Jane and Darcy. 

"What does that make me?" Pepper asked dryly.

Tony leered at her. "Our sugar mama."

"And me?" Sam said, amused. 

Nat hid her surprise at Barnes' words. "Clint's sex toy?"

Clint choked on the cracker he was eating, and Darcy pounded his back helpfully. 

"Really?" Tony said with great interest.

"No," Sam said. "I got shot down."

Clint coughed up more cracker. Nat hid her smile behind her glass, knowing it wasn't really hidden at all. Clint spat cracker crumbs all over when he spoke. "He's straight!"

"I think bi-curious was the term you used," Sam informed him. "And you've got cracker on your shirt."

Clint brushed at it. Darcy helped, sweeping her hands firmly down his chest. Clint twitched back and glared at her, and she stepped away, hands up and grinning. "Hey, if you're batting for the other team, I gotta get a feel in _somehow_." 

"I don't _only_ bat for the other team," Clint snapped defensively.

"Oh?" Darcy smiled, then turned to grin at Sam. "I'd be the pickle in the middle of that sandwich." 

Sam tossed his head back for one bark of laughter.

"You could do no better," Thor said gaily, "then the lady Darcy!"

Clint spoke loudly. "Didn't someone mention food?" 

**

They hadn't gotten far before the other guy nearly ripped his way free. For that, Bruce was grateful.

The handcuff had cracked. They'd replaced it with a new one. Timoteo's leg had been wrenched out of its socket before Bruce got control. They'd popped it back in, and Bruce could only be grateful the baby had been in a stupor. 

Once everything had calmed the doctor had cheerfully informed Bruce that they'd managed .2 centimeters into his skull before they'd had to stop. At that rate, they could drill through in three sessions. 

Bruce curled around Timoteo in his little bed, feeling the rasp of the pillowcase on his skull. He had to get out. He didn't know how.

**


	11. Chapter 11

He still had moments where the world faded out around him, but they were becoming easier to manage. The knowledge that he couldn't kill someone with one swing of a metal arm helped. It lessened his stress and gave him leave to let the cold sweep through him and disperse.

Nat, sitting on one side at the table, put her hand on his knee. It wasn't sexual; she sat near his metal arm, which he no longer had sensation in, so it was the easiest place for her to reach. He glanced at her. 

Now that he wasn't so worried about killing her (or her killing him), he had to admit she was pretty. The same way a tiger was pretty: sleek, graceful, breathtaking. And able to kill you if it got slightly annoyed. 

He smiled at her.

"You doing all right?" she asked, as the conversation went on around them. He could sense Steve -- on his other side -- become focused, though Steve didn't look over.

Bucky thought about it for a moment, taking another bite of chicken in teriyaki sauce. "I think so," he said finally. 

A missile shot across the table, nearly sending him to his feet until he realized it was a wonton.

"Sorry, sorry," Clint was already saying, hands up in a gesture of peace. 

But Bucky's heart rate didn't slow, and he could see other missiles, other missions, enemies at every turn. 

A strong hand gripped his arm. "Breathe, Bucky," a familiar voice said. "You're right here with us. No one's attacking. Clint just had an episode." 

He was ready for orders, but the only orders forthcoming were Steve's words: Breathe. Calm. Breathe. 

He did, sitting still and prepared. He was aware of everything and nothing, cataloging it all in case it was needed, but not focusing on any one detail. 

And then, slowly, words came back. 

"--you, five?" Tony Stark.

"--an impulse control, it's nothing--" Sam Wilson.

"Shut your face!" Clint Barton. The open-handed slap of skin on skin. Then, "...Fuck, I'm sorry--"

"If everyone could just calm down for a minute," Pepper Potts.

"--is Loki's doing?" Thor Odinson.

"Not everything is about Lo--" Clint Barton.

"Yeah." Sam Wilson.

"Would you shut--" Clint Barton.

"Sorry--" Sam Wilson.

"Clint, leave." Natasha Romanov. 

A man stood (Clint Barton stood) and stomped from the room, still cursing as he went. Another man stood (Thor stood) as well. "Should I follow him? Perhaps I might make redress if this is, indeed, my brother's doing."

Bucky blinked at Thor, information slotting into place as he came back to himself. It seemed he wasn't the only person who'd been mentally screwed with. Himself, Nat, now Clint. His lonely world was getting more populated. It made him feel better.

"No, he just needs time to cool down," Nat said. There was weariness in the set of her shoulders, and a sadness that Bucky recognized. He reached across hesitantly and put a hand on her forearm. Slim and narrow, with corded muscle under his palm. Her shoulders had borne a great deal, lately, he thought. 

She didn't look at him, but he thought he felt her lean into his touch ever so slightly. 

"I'm sorry," Tony said as the table settled. "But did he really take a handful of fortune cookies with him?"

"Just be glad it wasn't something with sauce." Sam gave a wry smile. 

As if taking up an old argument, Thor rounded on Tony. "You see? This is why we must stay close to our bothers and sisters in arms. They need us." 

It was like setting fire to dynamite. "They need us?" Tony snapped, then stood, hands braced on the table. "They need us!" He whirled to Steve. Bucky tensed, ready for a fight. "I needed them! Where the hell were you when I was saving the President? Is that not worthy of _Captain America_?"

Nat answered for Steve, calmly spooning hot and sour soup up. "We were in eastern Congo. He was breaking up a group calling themselves the War Tribunal while I pulled their hostages -- twelve schoolchildren -- to safety." She sipped from her spoon.

Tony seemed to deflate. Bucky relaxed a little. "Oh." Tony took his seat.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to help," Steve said gently. It triggered a memory in Bucky, and he was swept back to childhood while the conversation eddied around him. 

Nursing a split lip while his pint-sized best friend said, "I'm sorry I wasn't there to help," and gave him one of those soul-shattering looks of apology. 

The memory didn't fade. It didn't sink under the murky waters of his mind. Bucky grabbed it and held onto it, keeping it safe against his heart. He looked at Steve now, studying the achingly familiar length of his nose, lashes that were long but blond enough to look past, the half-familiar line of a jaw that had never been that strong when they were younger.

Steve glanced at him and gave him a soul-charming smile now, like recognizing an old friend. Steve put his hand on Bucky's shoulder and squeezed, then asked the group at large, "But speaking of people, where's Dr. Banner?"

Jane spoke up, leaning forward a little, eyes sparkling. "I'd hoped to meet him."

Tony made a noise of dismissal. "He decided to go," air quotes surrounded the next words, "'find himself' in the desert." 

Clint came skulking back in, sliding into his chair as if he'd never left. 

Tony was busy talking and didn't comment. "Far as I know, he's still there." He aimed his chopsticks at Natasha. "I consider that your fault, by the way."

Natasha arched an eyebrow at him. "It was important work. Has he succeeded?"

Tony frowned. "You'd know better than I would. I haven't seen him since he left."

Bucky could feel the way Natasha went still without actually going still. Outwardly, she stirred her soup, but the very core of her had frozen. "He was there with a SHIELD team. As SHIELD no longer exists..."

Darcy looked around the table, big brown eyes flickering from one face to the other. "That's... bad? No one's heard from him? Is that normal, for him?"

"Can't say it's abnormal," Steve said warily. "Fella made a life of disappearing."

Pepper glanced around, her chopsticks hovering. "I don't think he would have vanished without saying goodbye. Not unless there was a reason."

Clint was looking at Nat. "His agents being HYDRA would have been a good reason." He frowned. "I'm not being paranoid, right? That's possible."

"That's possible," Nat agreed. She set her spoon down. 

"But it's not like that would matter." Worry belied Tony's statement. "I mean, he nearly tore apart the Helicarrier. It's not like they could catch him."

Bucky watched the silent exchange between Clint and Nat. "We might have had a plan to get around that," Nat said slowly, and stood. "I need to make some calls."

"Maria Hill."

Everyone looked at Pepper, who'd spoken. Pepper didn't look away from Nat. "Could she help?"

"Most likely," Nat said slowly. "Why?"

Pepper smiled. "She's in the building. She always works late."

**

"What are you doing?"

The voice snapped Clint back to clarity, something he'd been struggling with since dinner. Embarrassment, humiliation, and anger washed through him. Clint laced his tone with sarcasm, and spoke the truth. "Examining the air ducts." He glanced over his shoulder to watch Sam, who was looking at him in puzzlement, arms crossed over his broad chest. 

"Why?" Sam asked. "So you can escape into them?"

That had been _exactly_ what he'd been thinking just a moment ago, when he wasn't thinking. They were big enough, and he was pretty sure they ran through most, if not all, of Stark Tower. He slammed the grate back into place and started putting the screws back in. "I don't know. Maybe!" The words were more defensive than he'd meant, and hearing them, he followed up with, "I think someone's following me."

"No one's following you." The almost compassionate tone in Sam's voice pissed him off even more. 

"I _know_ that!" Clint yelled, tucking his utility knife into his pocket and jumping down off of one of Tony's fancy-ass chairs. "I said I _think_ someone's following me, and we've already established that my brain is fucked up!" He had to stop shouting, but it felt so _good_. 

Clint scrabbled for some kind of control, furious at the god that had taken it away. He scraped his fingers through his hair and clutched his head, as if that might help. 

"Easy, circus boy." Sam walked closer. Hands closed on his shoulders, and he flinched. Sam's voice softened even further. "Easy, Clint. You're having an episode. It'll pass, all right?" 

He lashed out, breaking Sam's hold, jabbing quickly at Sam's face and throat.

Sam fell back, automatically dropping into a ready stance. He wasn't there long before he slapped at Clint's hands, blocking blows.

He was good. Not as good as Clint, but good _enough_. Clint stopped pulling his punches, throwing his rage into every blow. Emotion turned into movement, movement turned into fighting. Sam took far more blows than he landed, but throwing Clint over the couch was inspired (Clint had to admit, as he crashed into the coffee table and rolled up to his feet unsteadily). Clint fought with slaps instead of bone-breaking punches, and Sam followed in kind. Skin stung and sweat poured, and Clint hit as hard as he wanted. 

_Fuck_ Loki and _fuck_ the mind control and _fuck_ every God-damned symptom he had from _being_ mind controlled. 

He didn't know when fighting turned into grappling, and when grappling turned into clutching and breathing and gulping back the burn behind his eyes. He had Sam in a headlock, pinned to the floor, but Sam was soothing him as if their places were reversed, saying, "It's okay, Clint. It's okay. You're gonna be okay. Just let it out."

Clint released Sam and flung himself backward. Sam rolled to a sitting position. Clint couldn't look at him. Sam saw too much. Instead, Clint stared at some God-awful modern art piece sitting on a pedestal in the corner. "Maybe you're following me. Maybe that makes sense," Clint said bitterly.

"If I were following you," Sam said, rubbing his throat, "Nat would have killed me by now."

That was true. You couldn't argue with true. 

"Look, Clint," Sam said. "Something squished while we were wrestling, and I really hope that wasn't your junk."

Clint frowned down at his jeans. He wriggled a hand into his pocket and pulled out the remains of a peanut butter sandwich. "Ugh," he muttered. "That didn't fare well." 

Sam stood with a grimace and limped over to Clint. He sat down, leaning against the same wall. "I know you think your impulsiveness is an issue, but you know it's all linked, right?"

Clint didn't look at him.

"Food. Hiding. Stealing stuff. It's what kids do when they aren't getting what they need. Basic survival." 

There was no judgment, no pity in Sam's voice. Just facts. Clint propped his elbow on a raised knee and his head in his hand. "I don't want to talk about it." 

"Okay," Sam said. "But if it would help..." The offer was obvious. 

Clint closed his eyes, but heard his father roaring and felt Barney hustling him to safety under the bed, dinner forgotten. He thought of Loki, but this time as a little brother instead of an enemy to fight. He opened his eyes. "It wouldn't help."

"Okay," Sam said again. 

They sat in companionable silence. 

"I still want to crawl into the vents," Clint admitted, ashamed.

"You know there's like, millions of dust mites in there? If I have to follow your skanky ass in, I will. But I will bitch about it until kingdom come." 

It took Clint a minute to put all that together. Then he laughed quietly. "No one said you had to follow me in there. Wouldn't want you to muss your hair with _dust mites_."

"But you know I will."

It was stupid. It was ridiculous. And it still made him feel safer. "All right," he said at last. "Then not today. But another day it might happen."

"And another day I'll still bitch," Sam told him. "But at least you'll save yourself a few days. Now, how about foosball? I saw a table."

**

Steve put Bucky to bed early -- and didn't that sound odd? But it was true. He'd done it before. Not with Bucky, who'd never listened to him as well as the others had, but with the occasional Commando who'd needed a strong hand or a parent, after a hard battle. 

Bucky's battle was all in his head, but it was a battle nonetheless.

So Steve found him some pajamas and put him to bed in the suite Tony had offered them. Steve took one of the StarkPads and went to the couch, stretching out and pulling up the Internet. He still had catching up to do, and he wouldn’t leave Bucky here alone. 

Bucky was coming back to him.

**

Maria's office was new, but rapidly showing the effects of Maria herself. Nat leaned over the desk cluttered with papers and schematics, peering at the computer screen.

"If I'd wanted to stash Banner somewhere after plucking him up, it'd be here." Maria pointed to a warehouse outside Houston.

Nat considered it. "It's awfully close to the city." 

Maria slanted her an inscrutable look. "If you're sure they used the protocol you and Clint came up with--"

Nat nodded.

"--then it wouldn't matter. Plus, it's HYDRA."

Nat pursed her lips. "They'd be willing to take the chance. You're sure this building stayed under HYDRA's control?"

"It wasn't a high priority for SHIELD to keep hold of." Maria's chair creaked as she rocked in it, crossing her legs. Tan slacks and a black silk blouse should have softened her appearance, but Nat thought she looked even more dangerous. It was the way she moved, and the functional boots she wore. 

Nat nodded. "And you think it has the equipment they need to run experiments on Dr. Banner?"

"Definitely. Reported as a level three warehouse, which meant it was a case one lab." Maria steepled her fingers. "If he's being held, that's where."

**

Sam blocked the little ball from his goal with a, "Hah!" of triumph. He was getting beaten badly at foosball, something he'd always excelled at, and every blocked point was a success. "What the hell," he asked, eyes on the pinging ball and hands flying over the handles. "You can't be good at _all_ games that involve aiming."

Clint slid one row of plastic soccer players and spun them at the same time, whacking the ball with their paddle feet and sending it ricocheting off the side and into Sam's goal. He smirked. "Can, too."

"Shit." Sam pulled the ball out good naturedly and prepared to drop it in the center of the box. "What's the score?"

"14-2." Clint's grin was cheeky. 

He was going to lose this damn game, too. "Best five out of nine?" 

Clint laughed. It was a good sound, one Sam had rarely heard. A little rough and from deep in his chest. Sam looked at him, still holding the ball. "Who are you, Clint?" The hard-eyed, wry man Sam had first met? The wrecked shell that had such trouble coping with what Loki had done? The impulsive, laughing man he stood with now? Sam imagined a blend of all three, and guessed that was close. He liked all these men, but he liked that one best.

The question had wiped the smile from Clint's face, replacing it with something a little wary. "I don't know what--"

Sam dropped the ball and quickly spun his players before Clint could get his hands back on his grips. The ball shot past all of them and rattled into the goal. "Hah!" Sam yelled triumphantly. "Take _that_ \-- what fancy ass name did they give you?"

"Hawkeye," Clint said with an amused smile. The smile turned a little sheepish, and he scrubbed a hand through the back of his short hair. "That was cheating."

"It wasn't. 14-3." 

Clint fumbled the ball from the pocket and tossed it up. By the time it landed, dead center in the middle of the box, Sam was ready. 

The next round lasted a whopping eight seconds, ball cracking back and forth with enough force against the sides to make Sam worry about it bouncing out and bruising one of them. Not that the worry made him back off at all. 

Somehow, Clint banked it off a prediction of where Sam would move his guys, the wall, another prediction, and into the goal it went. "Shit!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up.

Clint cracked up. "I win!"

"I call bullshit!" Sam laughed through it, planting his hands on his hips. "You need a handicap. We'll tie one hand behind your back or something." 

Clint, still catching his breath, looked up. Then he slipped around the table and wrapped his hands around Sam's jaw, kissing him.

_This again?_ "Okay," Sam said against Clint's mouth, "I thought you didn't want to--" He couldn't continue with Clint pressing into him, trying to deepen the kiss. Sam threaded his hands through Clint's hair, looking for any of it long enough to grab. The stuff on top was just long enough, and Sam took advantage, knotting his fingers it in and pulling Clint away.

Clint caught his breath. "What? You're not bi-curious after all?"

"Very curious," Sam corrected, but figured that Clint could tell that, plastered as close as he was. "But I'm thinking this is one of those impulse moments, and you're going to regret it later."

Clint yanked his head loose. "No." He ground his hips against Sam's. "Don't think so." 

Sam caught his balance. This was not fair. "I'm not taking advantage of you when you're not in your right mind." Except Clint's hands were busy at Sam's waist, now, rucking his shirt up to get at skin underneath. 

"I'm in my right mind." Clint's voice was muffled, lips against Sam's throat. "It's not like I impulsively do things I _don't_ want to do."

Sam wasn't sure when he'd tipped his head back to give Clint better access to his neck, or when they'd shuffled over to the side of the room. "Okay, look," Sam said, firmly reminding himself that he wasn't going to do this, "we can make out, but I'm not having sex with you in here."

Clint dropped to his knees. "Who said anything about sex?" He lifted Sam's shirt and licked his belly. Then his fingers slid under Sam's belt. 

"Okay, there, Hawkeye." Sam grabbed Clint's hands and hauled them away, then lifted Clint back up to his feet. He put Clint's hands on his shoulders, grabbed Clint's ass, and walked him back toward the overstuffed couch in the middle of the room. "You're only getting to second base." 

Clint offered a pitiful little whine in protest. Sam pushed him back onto the couch, purposefully sprawling on top of him to keep him still and regain some control. Sam slid a hand down the side of Clint's body, feeling hard muscles under a purple T-shirt. He rose up under Sam and Sam pressed down firmly to keep from getting bucked off. 

"Easy," Sam murmured, nuzzling under Clint's jaw. It was different than kissing a woman. Women were soft under their jaws, while Clint had stubble. It scraped against his nose and lips, but made him more excited than turned off. 

He licked one of Clint's tendons, then bit down gently and, when Clint stilled, sucked hard enough to leave a mark. "Better," he said, sliding his hands up under Clint's shirt, rucking it up between them. 

Clint sat up a little and Sam went with him. Made it easier to pull his shirt off that way, after all. He yanked Clint's shirt off and tossed it aside, then lifted his arms so Clint could return the favor. "You sure about this?" he asked as Clint ran hands and mouth over him.

Clint's answer was muffled but enthusiastic. 

"You realize your impulse control's getting worse?"

Clint stopped and looked at him. "You are seriously a buzzkill right now." 

Sam gave a sardonic little smile. Even he couldn't believe what a buzzkill he was being. Neither could his dick. "One of us needs to have some sense." 

Clint rubbed his forehead on Sam's chest. Sam lifted a hand, running his fingertips over the back of Clint's skull. "Second base," Clint breathed. "Can't regret second base as much as I regret throwing that wonton at Thor."

"Good point," Sam said, and wondered how much _he_ would regret it when Clint inevitably back pedaled again. He pushed down anyway, using his advantage to take control back. Clint seemed willing enough to give it up, and for a moment Sam found himself wondering: was that Clint, or another aspect of what Loki had done? Then he was too busy kissing to think about it.

Exploring a man was definitely a new experience. He liked the way Clint groaned when he licked the shell of Clint's ear. Found he actually could cup Clint's pecs if he wanted (and got Clint to squirm when he pinched the flat nipple), but it wasn't the same experience as cupping a breast. He liked dragging his nails down Clint's chest, though, and not worrying that it would hurt. Clint wasn't particularly hairy, but Sam still wasn't sure about the few hairs he _did_ get in his mouth when he licked downward the way he would have with a female lover. 

On the flip side, Clint's hands felt great on his skin. Clint had heavier calluses from the bow than anyone Sam imagined he'd ever date, but they weren't bad. Clint's fingers were very agile and sensitive, lightening off whenever he came across a scar or a bruise from their earlier tussle, firming up when Sam started to squirm because of a tickle. They were broader than the women he'd dated, spanning more skin. And Clint knew just how hard to lift his leg between Sam's to rub, demin chuffing between them. 

But best of all were the noises Clint made. Whether it was an impulse control issue or a Clint thing, Sam absorbed them all happily. Clint shuddered when Sam sucked on a nipple, and made a soft, whimpering noise when Sam bore down on Clint's pelvis. It took him a minute to figure out, but eventually he managed to press his weight into Clint's hard-on, pulsing firmly. It brought forth the most delicious half-caught groan he'd ever heard. 

Okay. Making out with a guy was distinctly different than making out with a girl, but it was still good. He enjoyed the slide of Clint's hands over his back and shoulders. When Clint urged his head up he moved, found it was easier to rub his leg against Clint from this position, and proceeded to nibble and lick at Clint's ear. 

"Jesus -- fuck -- Sam --" Clint panted, squirming and hard and out of breath. Sam felt rather smug. Clint's hips jerked against him, nails scrabbling against his shoulder blades, and then Clint went still. Blue eyes flew open in something akin to surprise. Then they closed, and Clint groaned and relaxed.

Sam froze. He pulled back, looked down at the limp body beneath him, and started to laugh. "Did you really just come in your jeans?"

Clint threw an arm over his face, but not before every bit of fair skin turned bright red. "I think that was an impulse thing," Clint muttered.

Sam fell on top of him, still laughing, dragging Clint into a better position to be a human body pillow. "I can't believe that." 

"Oh, c'mon, now!" Clint said indignantly. "It happens to everyone sometimes!"

"Yeah, sure. When you're _thirteen_!" He shifted again, trying to get his weight off his own extremely hard dick. Oh, he was going to be blue-balled. Not fair. Not fair at all. He kept laughing, anyway, inhaling Clint's scent with every breath. It was a good scent. "Ah, man," he said, finally calming. "You are something else, you know that? Something else."

**

Nat found Tony in his own set of apartments near the top floor, talking with Jane while Thor and Darcy played some form of "Never have I ever" in the corner. 

"Stark," she said, interrupting Jane and startling a jump out of the girl. "I need a jet to go get Banner." 

Tony frowned, half standing. "You found him?"

"I found a likely place for him. We suspect --" She stopped and amended, "I suspect HYDRA has him. It's the only reason he wouldn't have popped back up." 

Tony's jaw firmed and Nat caught a rare glimpse of a serious side. "Jet's at the airport. I'll drive you."

She frowned. "Can you grab a suit and fly me?" She'd need an oxygen mask at the speeds he flew and for a distance that long, but--

Tony scowled. "My suits were... burned. I haven't made another."

Nat stared at him, reading more than she wanted to know. She couldn't believe he'd done that.

"I can fly her," Thor said. "If the beast is loosed, you may need me."

"Good," Nat said. Jane stood and Darcy came closer. "You might make the perfect entrance." Nat eyed him, considering strength and breadth of shoulders. "Do you have your cape?"

Thor smiled. "Aye."

"Bruce is my friend," Tony said sharply. "I'm not getting left here."

"We'll hopefully be done by the time you get to your jet." Nat kept her voice smooth and calm. "But getting a doctor in the building might not be a bad idea." 

A muscle jumped in Tony's jaw. His teeth were set, and his nostrils flared once. Then he bellowed for JARVIS and strode toward the elevators.

Out the window, Thunder rolled. Thor walked to the balcony, throwing open the doors.

"Do I need an oxygen mask?" Nat asked, following. 

"Nay." Thor smiled at her. "The magic of Asgard shall protect you." Then he stepped outside. Lightning brightened the sky, clothed him in electricity, and cleared to show his armor and cape. He held out a hand and waited for Mjolnir.

Jane caught at Nat's elbow, and Nat glanced over.With a lift of her eyebrows she waited.

"Is it going to be dangerous?" Jane's gaze was solemn and brave, in the way Nat imagined Viking wives had to be brave. 

"Not too dangerous," she said. Not compared to aliens, anyway. 

Jane nodded firmly. "Watch over him." 

Nat gave a little smile. Then Thor was striding toward her, Mjolnir in hand. 

Jane spoke, addressing the room at large. "JARIVS, where are the communication buds?"

"In the corner, above the espresso machine," he answered primly.

Jane strode to the kitchenette, opening the cupboard to expose a tangle of wires and electronics. After a moment of digging, she pulled out various earwigs. "Are these linked to to each other?"

"Of course." An AI shouldn't have sounded vaguely offended, but he did.

Jane gave one to Thor and one to Nat, who smiled a secret thanks. Then Jane put one on, too. "Go safely." She rose on her bare feet, hands on Thor's shoulders to bring him down for a kiss. "Be careful."

"Always," Thor said. He grinned and, wrapping an arm around Natasha's waist, started whirling his hammer.

"We'll be back soon!" Nat called, and then she grabbed hold as the ground left her feet.

**

Steve tipped his head as he heard rushed footsteps in the bedroom. Bucky appeared, dashed into the little bathroom, and retched.

Steve stood from the couch, setting aside his StarkPad, and headed to his friend. "Buck?"

"Oh, God, forgive me," Bucky breathed, and then began to puke up whatever acid was left in his stomach.

Steve dug through the cupboards, set aside a washrag, didn't find what else he wanted and headed to the small kitchenette. There were cups there and he grabbed one, filling it with water before going back. 

"Get it all out, Bucky," he said as he rounded the corner. "It'll be fine."

"It's not. It's not!" Bucky staggered to his feet, his center of gravity changed by his useless arm. He nearly fell into the bathtub, catching himself at the last minute with bared teeth. "It's not going to be fine!" he roared, lunging toward Steve. "Don't you get it? I can't undo the things I did! The things they _made me_ do!" 

Bucky grabbed Steve's shirt and yanked, nearly pulling Steve off balance. Steve planted his feet and gripped Bucky's wrist. "You can't undo them, but you can move on from them." 

Bucky yelled in his face, a little smaller now than Steve himself, paler and still looking ill. His breath reeked of vomit. "I can't! You don't understand, I can't!" With every statement he punched his fist into Steve's chest, as if that would make Steve get it.

Steve's own temper, so difficult to rouse, was carried up on distress. "You have to!" he shouted back, his nose inches from Bucky's. He stopped himself from continuing to shout. He took a breath and collected himself again. Once more the captain. "You have to, Bucky," he said calmly. His shaking hand belied his control as he lifted it, stroking it down Bucky's hair. Puke tangled in some of the strands. 

The anger had been shocked out of Bucky, it seemed. He dropped his hand away from Steve's shirt. "Why do you care so much?" he asked miserably.

Steve picked up the washcloth, dabbed it in the cup of water, and started cleaning the puke out of Bucky's hair. "I'm alone here," he said. "Until I saw you, I was alone. I don't want to be alone again."

"You have friends. I've met them." Bucky's mouth set in that way he'd gotten when they were younger. Fifty years ago, or five years ago. One and the same. He bent and put the toilet lid down, sitting on it.

Steve perched on the edge of the bathtub, bringing the washcloth and cup with him. "Sam's a good guy," he admitted. "I hope we'll be friends. And I'm friends with Nat, but it's different. She's... secretive. Besides, you know me."

Bucky gave him a searching look, and for a moment Steve wondered if Bucky _did_ know him. Or if there were enough missing memories to limit that knowledge. 

Steve filled him in. "Never was great at opening up to people." 

Bucky watched him with exhaustion in his eyes. "You want me to be the person I was, but I'm not," he said quietly. "And you want Nat to be someone she never was." 

"I don't--"

"You do." Bucky's head dropped. He stared at the floor between his feet. "All we can do is be the people we are now, Cap. And you may not like those people." 

It hurt to hear that his friends thought he wouldn't like them. But then, he had never really trusted Nat. For reasons that seemed valid at the time -- she _kept_ things from him. She manipulated people and wore a mask so thick you had to peel it away one layer at a time. Who could blame him, if he didn't entirely trust her? 

She was trying, now. He knew that. He still found himself wondering if he was being manipulated. And then there was Bucky.

"I can take you for who you are," Steve said at last, "but you have to show me who that is. Stop running from me, Bucky."

Bucky's head came up. "I'm not--" Then his eyes shadowed, and he looked away. "I'll try." 

**


	12. Chapter 12

Nat, protected from the wind by Asgardian magic, didn't have to shout for Thor to hear her. "Maria thinks he'd be held near the center of the building, underground." 

"Shall we knock?"

Nat shifted in Thor's grip -- after the initial adrenaline burst, she'd realized no matter what she did she couldn't wriggle out of his clutches -- to look at the neat, stacked building coming into view. "If you mean go straight down through the roof and into the underground level, yes." No point in being subtle. If her plan worked and if Bruce was there, they wouldn't be subtle for long.

"My pleasure, m'lady," Thor rumbled. They flew straight until they were directly over the building, then made a hard turn and dove toward the ground. Nat felt her heart pounding in her chest, but refused to let it panic her. This was faster than any fall, and she just had to trust that Thor knew what he was doing. 

Thor led with the hammer, not slowing as the roof slammed up against them. It went too fast for Nat to see what happened, to do more than register demolition and noise before Thor had somehow flipped them both upright and landed -- more Asgardian magic, Nat assumed, keeping her bones from shattering -- on a hard concrete floor, with a spill of moonlight shining from the passage they'd made. The alarm had already started.

If she was right and HYDRA had used the half-baked plan she and Clint had come up with, she and Thor had barely a minute before the Hulk overcame Bruce and whatever was attached to him died. She didn't let the dive from the heavens rattle her; she stepped out of Thor's arms and lifted her widow's bite, shooting one fleeing man in the spine, the second in the calf. That one she walked to briskly, knelt to where he was screaming obscenities, and placed her nails against the soft flesh under his eye. "Where is Dr. Banner?"

"Fuck you, bi--"

She pressed. Polished red sank into him, and his words turned to a frantic scream. The Asgardian boot that pinned one arm kept him from fighting effectively.

"That way," he shouted, pointing with his other arm at a wall. "End of this hall, pass three corridors and turn left! His cell's on the right! Jesus Christ!"

"Hail HYDRA," Nat answered, and swiveled as she stood. If they went straight through the wall, they ought to end up where Bruce was. "Thor?"

"Of course." He didn't even bother with the hammer. He simply shouldered through the wall, leaving carnage in his path, ignoring the people they came upon. Nat followed him, a silent shadow handing death to those who didn't move fast enough. 

And then they were in a hall, with three guards outside one door looking pale and braced for the worst. With all the chaos they'd begun, she knew that behind that door Bruce was fighting the Hulk. Images of the Helicarrier lurked in the back of her mind, but stayed where they wouldn't hinder her.

"'Twas a mistake to take our shield-brother," Thor growled, and loosed Mjolnir. 

"Thor," Nat said sharply, aware of the time and how few seconds remained before Bruce likely lost control.

With a growl he called Mjolnir back -- two of the three guards already down -- and smashed through the wall into Bruce's cell while Nat took care of the final guard.

Bruce was within, pale and green around the edges, but not the struggling bundle of rage she'd expected. He held a squalling infant in his arms and wore a pair of hospital pants but nothing else. He was too thin, his head shaved, his eyes hollow. 

Then Thor was blocking her view, speaking and striding toward Bruce. 

"Widow," Thor said, and she stepped around him. He couldn’t take the infant and break the cuffs at the same time. She took it, capably but not comfortably. Voices were echoing down the halls. Reinforcements coming.

She met Bruce's eyes as Thor wrapped his hands around each cuff, snapping them with a quick tug without jarring either Bruce or the child. "You think if we get to a safe zone, you can take care of the rest?" she asked.

Bruce's smile was feral. "I think I can." 

Nat gave a brisk nod and continued. "If the Other Guy heads toward Houston, Thor will distract him. Otherwise, we'll stay at a safe distance." Already, Thor was wrapping his arm around her.

Bruce's eyes flicked past her shoulder. "Go."

A whirl of the hammer and a leap, and they were flying up, the infant still screaming in the bubble of Asgardian magic. Nat held onto the baby, and trusted Thor to hold onto her. 

Below, a monster roared.

**

"God _damn_ ," Tony snarled, sweeping an arm across his workbench. Tools and components scattered across the floor, and the half-rebuilt Dum-E toodled over to start sweeping them up. Tony raked his fingers through his hair, pacing away. "JARVIS, what's the update?" 

"Given the background noise on the comm devices," JARVIS said, "I believe Ms. Romanov and Thor have retreated with an infant, and Dr. Banner is having an argument with the people who held him."

"Let me hear."

The volume turned up. Thor making cooing, soothing noises to a fussing brat, and faintly, the roar and crash of the Other Guy. 

"Turn it off." It only made him feel even _more_ like he should be there. "How's Mark 43 coming?"

"It should be ready in another seven hours, sir."

"Not good enough."

"Yes, sir." 

He paced again, back and forth, snatched up his energy drink and drank, tossed the rest in the garbage, picked up the half-finished project he'd been working on the _last_ time he'd been in New York, tossed that away, too. "JARIVS--"

The door opened and Pepper walked in, a tightly leashed frisson of anger. "Tony, what are you doing?"

"Nothing." Guilt stabbed through him and he couldn’t look at her. "It's not for me, Pep," he said quickly. 

She spoke over him. "We agreed, no more suits. It's not healthy--"

"It's not for me!" He yelled it this time, spreading his hands as if that were obvious. "They're out there saving my friend, something I could have done except I blew up all my suits! I don't have enough friends to just let a few of them die!" This last was heavy with sarcasm, but it struck where his half-broken heart was. 

"Tony, Bruce is going to be fine. They didn't need your help to save him. Maybe that should tell you--"

He didn't let her finish. He couldn’t let her finish. The panic that boiled inside of him had to come out. "And what about next time? What if we hadn't had Thor here, or what if someone else gets hurt? Am I just supposed to say, 'Gosh, sorry, I could have saved your life but I didn't feel like building a new suit'?"

"Of course not." She started walking toward him, and he couldn’t allow that. He moved away quickly.

"Then I need a suit. Not to keep me safe." He strode toward her then, catching her elbows and willing her to understand. "Not to keep me safe, I'm safe, I know I'm safe, I'm fine--"

She wrested her arms away from him to put her hands on his cheeks and stare into his eyes. "You are not fine."

"--I'm not fine, okay, that's true, but I'm not going crazy with the suits again, I just need one--" Well... "Maybe two--" Except... "A couple of variations for different things until I can fit all those things into one suit, maybe an upgrade occasionally--" He was losing her, he could tell by the way her face closed and she'd withdrawn -- "Pepper, I swear, I _promise_ I'm not having another breakdown." He took a breath. Tried to rally his thoughts. They spun so fast in his mind, it was hard to get them out and make people understand that just because they were fast didn't meant they were worthless. So he tried to impress their worthiness upon her. "I need to keep my friends safe." 

"Sir," JARVIS said, "we're going to need more titanium."

Pepper had been on the verge of accepting, he could see it. At JARVIS' voice, she closed her eyes as if pained and looked away. 

"Not now, JARVIS," Tony snapped. He didn't take his eyes off Pepper. She still didn't speak. He couldn't stand the silence. "Pep?"

"Make your suit," she said, looking at the far wall. "But, Tony--"

"I know." He scooped up her hands and kissed first one, then the other. "I know." He didn't know, but it didn't matter. They'd said everything, and anything she could say he'd already thought of, already told himself and warned himself and berated himself. "I have to do this, Pep. I can't just leave people -- people I care about -- in danger."

Finally, she looked at him. He breathed again. Her smile was without humor or happiness, and the look in her eyes was sad but fond. "I know. And while you're looking after everyone else, I'll keep looking after you."

It made something twist in his chest. It was good and awful and he didn't know what to make of it, but there it was. He wanted to feel it again, though he wasn't sure he liked it. 

Pepper disengaged her hands from his and headed back toward the door. "I'm going to come get you to eat soon. Finish up whatever you're doing."

"Yes ma'am," he said, and waited for the door to close. "JARVIS? How're the Bruce Collectors doing?"

"The background noise has calmed, sir. I believe they'll be headed home soon."

**

Thor had swaddled the infant in the ends of his cape when it became clear that Natasha, remarkable though she was, had no natural way with babes. He stood holding the boy, bouncing slightly as a single, slender man lifted himself off the ground and begin walking, naked, toward them. The desert rocks seemed not to bother his feet, nor the dark his eyes. 

Slowly, the form sharpened into Dr. Bruce Banner, tired but determined, unbothered by his own nudity. With a mental shrug -- there was nothing to be done for it -- Thor put the babe in Natasha's arms and ripped his cape off his shoulders, tearing off the strip the babe was swaddled in and handing the rest, as Bruce approached, to the doctor. 

"Thanks." Bruce's voice was hoarser than Thor remembered it. Bruce took the cape and wrapped it around his waist. His eyes were flat with exhaustion as he looked between them. Then emotion flickered, and they grew moist. He closed them, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I didn't think you were coming." His voice was raw.

Thor gripped Banner's shoulder, conveying comfort and support. "We came as soon as we found you'd been captured. We are only sorry we did not come sooner." 

Clearly trying to keep his composure, Bruce drew a deep, if shaky, breath and exhaled. 

"Let us take you home," Thor said gently.

Bruce looked up. His lashes were spiked together. "Home?" 

"Tony's," Nat said, holding herself apart from them. Not from fear of the leviathan within Bruce, Thor thought, but fear of the emotion Bruce tried so hard to contain. "He's been letting us stay while we solve some problems." 

"Come," Thor said. "If you will hold the babe, and Nat will hold me, I can carry us all." He didn't mention that he assumed Bruce's strength would ebb before they got back. Better simply to allow Bruce to hold the lightest bundle.

Bruce didn't argue. He tied the cape more firmly around his waist, picked up the babe, and nodded once. Nat jumped onto Thor's back, hitching a leg around his waist, her arm over one of his shoulders and then down across his chest. When Thor wrapped Bruce close, he could feel the long tremors that ran through the Midgardian's body. He bent his head to speak into Bruce's ear. "You are safe now." And then he leaped.

**

What had he done? _What_ had he _done_? Clint leaned into the shower spray, trying to wash the filth from his skin. It wasn't possible. It was inside him, lurking. It couldn't be washed away. 

If they didn't hate him before, they would now. He'd never wanted to be his father, and now he was so much worse than that. 

He had to get away. If he ran now, they couldn't hate him too much, could they? He had to go before they found out, before they took their own justice out of his hide. Except he couldn't run. His covers were all blown. His safe car was gone. 

Had Nat taken it? She'd known where it was. He'd assumed that was because she knew him so well, but maybe it was because she'd taken it. She didn't want him running. She wanted him here, where she could watch him, doubtless because she knew what he was capable of. Would she offer him up to the others to ingratiate herself? Surely not. But she'd done worse. 

Oh, God, _he'd_ done worse just a few hours before.

Clint puked. Nothing came up. He'd already puked dinner out. His stomach cramped with the retching, though. He didn't whimper or hiss at the pain. He had to be quiet. Small. He had to stay out of sight. 

He shut the water off, grabbing the towel hanging nearby and scrubbing his already-raw skin as if he could scrub off his sins. This was so much worse than the need to scrub Loki out of his mind. 

Loki. This had to be Loki. Clint wasn't abusive. He couldn't be. A killer, sure, but not -- not his father. It had to be the remnants of Loki in him. Something Loki had done to him. He had to go find Loki. Loki was dead. God, maybe he ought to find HYDRA and get them to brainwash him, because whatever they told him to do couldn't be worse than what he was doing.

Unless they _had_ brainwashed him. Maybe he was under their control. Maybe that was the problem. It wasn't him at all, it was them. It was what they made him do. He'd taken those drugs and they'd kept him from questioning, but now he was thinking clearly. Yes, that had to be it. 

He yanked his jeans on over damp skin, wriggled into a T-shirt and then Sam's hoodie, and shouldered purposefully out of the room. He had to go.

Sam was in the little living area of the suite. Clint froze, stomach tanking.

"Hey," Sam said, standing up and looking at Clint with a worried expression.

Worried? Why? Worried Clint would bolt and he wouldn't be able to press charges? Worried that Clint was figuring out about the drugs? Was Sam in on the brainwashing? HYDRA had found Sam's house, and they still didn't know how. "What?" Clint said, backing toward the bathroom.

No, that was no good. There was no escape from the bathroom.

Sam frowned. "Are you okay?"

There was an air duct in the bedroom. He edged toward the hall. "Fine. Why?" Then he swallowed and asked, "Are you okay? I mean, I know you're not okay." Guilt punched him in the gut. "Oh, fuck, Sam, I'm sorry." Sam was here to take his due, and Clint couldn't even bring himself to stop it.

"What are you talking about?" Sam looked confused, then that cleared and he scowled. "Did you get something nasty in my hoodie?"

Was he playing dumb? Clint's stomach spasmed. He wasn't going to puke again. He wasn't. "No." His voice dropped. He couldn't bring himself to speak normally. He could barely force the words out. "I practically raped you."

Sam's face went blank. Then he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Ho, boy. Clint," he said carefully, "you didn't do anything I didn't consent to." 

Tremors ran through his insides, turning them all to jelly. "I couldn't stop myself. I can't control myself -- or maybe it's not impulse control, maybe it's brain washing--"

"Clint--" Sam stepped toward him, and Clint shot backward. Sam stopped and held up his hands placatingly. "Clint, take a breath. You're having an episode."

"That's what you want me to think!" Clint shouted, anger mixing sickeningly with shame. 

"Why would I want you to think that? First you think you raped me, then you think you're being mind controlled, and now I'm in on it? None of it makes any sense, right?"

It didn't make sense. Not altogether. Pointing it out made his head throb. 

"Come sit down," Sam said calmly.

"No." He leaned against the hall wall. "I jumped you earlier. You said -- you said no. I remember that you said no."

"I said no," Sam answered, "because I was worried you'd regret it later." He gave a twisted smile. "And though this wasn't the kind of regret I was thinking, clearly I wasn't wrong." 

Clint just stared at him. 

"I pinned you down," Sam said. "Remember?"

He did. God, did he remember. He'd come to take a shower because he'd made a mess in his pants. 

He was being fucking insane. Clint rolled until his back was flush against the wall, then sank down. "I'm losing my mind," he whispered to the world at large. He could sense Sam coming closer, and resisted the urge to bolt. 

Sam crouched at the mouth of the hallway, keeping his space. "I don't think I've seen you this bad." It was a question buried in a statement.

Clint rolled his head on the wall in a silent negative. "I was this bad... before." After Loki. Before the pills. "They got it partially under control with drugs, but it kept getting worse. Until those other ones. The experimental ones." He let his mind drift, then finally said, "I didn't molest you." This time, it was a statement. Somehow hearing the words and seeing Sam's face slotted everything back into perspective. Sam had been an active participant. The relief made him heady. 

"And I thought I was fucked up before," Clint said, and tried to force a smile. 

Sam offered a pathetic one back. "You do best when you're focused on something." 

"Yeah," Clint murmured. "But I can't focus all the time." 

It was true. Neither of them said anything. Sam settled more comfortably on the floor. Clint hung his arms over his knees. 

"How about I stay the night?" Sam asked. "Nat's gone. I could sleep on the couch." 

Tony had given them all little rooms -- or Pepper had or maybe JARVIS, Clint wasn't sure. Clint rubbed his face. "Yeah," he said into his hands. "That sounds like a good idea."

**

There was a small group of people who met them on the Stark landing pad. Bruce staggered away from Thor, gratefully handing Timoteo over to Pepper as she stepped forward to take him. 

Tony spoke, falsely brash. "That was an extreme way to get attention, don't you think? Next time, just pick up the phone." 

Normally such a statement would earn a wry smile and a comeback, but Bruce couldn't do it, now. His wrist felt strange without the cuff on it, his chest felt empty without Timoteo against it. The removal of despair and helplessness and the heady knowledge that he was free and the torture was over made him light headed and over emotional. He looked at Tony, and didn't want to know what was in his face when Tony's smile faded and Tony stepped forward, hesitantly putting a hand on Bruce's elbow. 

"Hey," Tony said, and then -- for once -- seemed to be at a loss for words.

"Oh, Bruce," Pepper exclaimed, handing Timoteo over to the last person in their little group, a woman Bruce barely recognized (Mary? Maria?), and rushing forward to wrap him in a hug.

He couldn't respond. Then his arms closed around her slowly, feeling her thin frame holding him up, and everything came crashing in.

Vaguely, he was aware of Nat's touch on his shoulder before she and Thor left, of Mary/Maria going inside with Timoteo, of Tony hovering. But over the wash of emotion, none of it really registered. All the pain and fear loosed with such a torrent that he could barely breathe, and the more it released the more it became until he was sobbing against her, unable to stand on his own. 

"Hush, now," Pepper crooned, smoothing his hair and rocking back and forth. "It's over, Bruce. It's over." 

They stood there while the moon rose higher, and the sounds of the city quieted. Until Bruce had no more tears, and his throat was raw from sobbing. Until his head pulsed from dehydration and the emptiness inside him had eased. 

Then, slowly, they went inside. "Timoteo--" he said, breaking away from Pepper and looking wildly around the room. It was wrong to be alone, standing without the baby cradled on him. He felt empty.

But Timoteo was there, holding one of Mary/Maria's fingers in his fist while she unswaddled him and checked for basic signs of health.

"Give him to me," Bruce said hoarsely, throat still choked with tears. "He needs another feeding."

"JARVIS," Tony said, "get someone to get formula and a bottle. And diapers. And whatever else a baby needs. Now."

"Of course, sir."

"Only until tomorrow," Mary/Maria said, looking solemnly at Bruce as if she was offering a promise. She wrapped Timoteo up and carried him back over. "We'll call CPS in the morning and get him back with his family."

"He doesn't have one." Bruce collected the bundle, automatically cradling him so that the foot that was no longer shackled -- someone must have taken the manacle off -- was near Bruce's now-bare wrist. 

"Then we'll get him to his new family," Mary/Maria said.

Bruce nodded jerkily, knew they should call CPS tonight, and was grateful for this little reprieve. His life wasn't one for a baby, but everything had changed so quickly. This, for better or worse, was his touchstone. Timoteo gave him a focus.

He sat slowly on the plush leather couch. Pepper sat beside him, hip to hip, and Tony on the coffee table, knee to knee. 

Pepper put a gentle hand on his arm. "We should get a doctor to take a look at both of you." 

He shuddered, thinking of needles and drills. "No."

"Bruce--"

" _No_. I'm healed, and Timoteo's fine." His breath hiccuped in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him with tears. He stared at Timoteo, knowing that if he looked at either Pepper's or Tony's stricken expressions, he'd break again. But he leaned, resting against Pepper. She wrapped her arm around him. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

Bruce looked up, saw Tony uncharacteristically silent across from him, watching with concern that he clearly didn't know what to do with. "No," Bruce said, and closed his eyes so he didn't have to see the world. Then he whispered, "Thank you so much," knowing they would understand, feeling his eyes wet again. He clenched them tight while Pepper wrapped her other arm around him, turning his face into her neck and blocking out the world.

**


	13. Chapter 13

Nat stretched cold, stiff muscles and took herself out of the window seat. She'd tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes her subconscious spat up that first instant she'd seen Bruce, before Thor had blocked her view. Thin, desperate, his wrist a bloody mess around the handcuff, his arms bearing needle tracks, the edge of a bandage just visible around the base of his skull. 

She hadn't done that to him, but it was her fault. She'd encouraged him to go find himself. She'd let Fury know. She'd made sure the team -- actually HYDRA, she now knew -- and Bruce were comfortable together. 

She hadn't even remembered him, when she'd gone after Clint. 

The ghost image haunted her sleep.

As the sun rose over the city she limbered up, standing in the middle of the floor and doing the ballet she only did in private. They'd trained it into her, and it was a good stretch for stiff muscles. They'd drilled her on form and technique for so long that it came automatically now, and she could lose herself in the movements and free her mind.

When she was moving normally again, she showered, dressed, put on her clothes, and headed down the hall to the suite Barnes had been assigned.

She knew Steve had stayed with him; that had been the plan. Her grip on Barnes was easing off, letting him slide into someone else's care. It was better that way. 

She tapped on the door with her fingertips. She knew that Steve would hear it with his enhanced senses and guessed that Barnes would, too. When Steve opened the door a moment later, he was dressed in running clothes. He gave Nat a quick smile. 

"Buck's in the shower. I didn't want to leave him, just in case, but if you don't mind staying a bit...?" 

She nodded once and stepped into the suite. Steve wore an iPod in a band around his arm, and tucked the first earbud in.

"What are you listening to?" Nat asked, curious as to where he was on his list.

" _The Life and Times of Richard Nixon_." He flashed her a bright smile and headed out the door.

Nat chuckled softly and locked it behind him, then made herself comfortable on the sofa, taking off her shoes and folding her feet under her rump. A newspaper was spread out on the coffee table and she picked it up, listening absently to the shower. She didn't dare try to rest, tired as she was. Every time she closed her eyes, Bruce watched her.

The water shut off after a little while. She could hear small noises in the bathroom; the rattle of a curtain drawing back, a heavier step as Barnes caught his balance, the shuffle of clothes being donned. Then the door opened, and Barnes came out.

"Steve, could you--?" He paused at her. She flicked her gaze over him. Gone were the clothes of the homeless man. He wore a pair of loose fitting jeans and a white thermal that strained over the metal of his dead arm. His hair was wet and tucked behind his ears, his eyes clearer than she'd ever seen them. The horrible beard was gone, though he had something darker than a five o' clock shadow. It accentuated the strength in his jaw and the light gray of his irises.

He smiled warmly, leaning in the doorway. "Nat. I was going to ask Steve for help, but maybe you could...?"

She wondered when she'd become 'Nat' to him. He looked better. He looked _a lot_ better. She stood, walking silently around the couch and toward him and whatever he needed. 

He backed into the bathroom, picking up a little hairband and offering it on the tip of a flesh finger. "It takes two hands to pull it back, and I..." He shrugged with his good side. A sling -- more high tech than the ripped up shirt he'd been using -- was on the back of the toilet. 

"Sure," Nat said quietly, and reached up to run her fingers through his hair. It was clean and slick, like he'd used conditioner, and smelled vaguely of some spice scent that the shampoo maker thought was manly. 

"Not all of it," he said, when she started to gather it into a tail at the base of his neck. "I just need it out of my eyes."

She hummed an affirmative, dropping it down to cover his nape, just pulling back some of the stuff that would fall in his face. It was quick work to separate it out and bind it up. She stepped away as he reached for the sling, pulling it over his head and then sliding his dead arm in place. All the while he glanced at her reflection in the mirror, and she watched him neutrally. 

He wrapped the dangling strap of the sling around his waist, clipping it in front to keep his arm from inching forward or back. Then he turned and leaned against the counter, openly staring at her.

She looked up at him, checking pupil size. He seemed normal, though. Or as normal as she'd ever known him to be.

"You okay?"

She lifted her eyebrows in automatic aloofness, as if he'd spoken out of turn.

It didn't deter him. "You look like you haven't slept in... a while." He considered her, then added, "You look like hell."

"Steve was right. You are a sweet talker," Nat said blandly, and headed out to the kitchenette. Coffee would restore her. 

Barnes followed, his footsteps soft but not silent. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Just a restless night," Nat said. She found a Keurig machine and a pod, along with several eco-friendly disposable cups. 

Barnes leaned against the counter and watched her some more. He was muscular, shorter than Steve but just as broad through the shoulders. His upper body had been especially built up, no doubt to help carry around a metal arm. When he walked he had a slightly off-balance swagger, as if compensating for more weight on one side. "Steve said you and Thor went to get your friend last night. Bennet?"

"Banner," Nat corrected. "Bruce Banner."

"Scientist," Barnes said. "Tried to replicate the super solder serum and ended up turning himself into some kind of monster. Probably the most dangerous member of the Avengers Initiative, given his unpredictability, invulnerability, and strength. He's--"

She looked at Barnes. His eyes were a little unfocused, as if reading a script in his own mind, but when her gaze landed on him he snapped out of it. Gave her a sheepish smile, and tugged on the ends of his wet hair.

"Sorry. Guess you know all that. Still weird what I know, without remembering learning it."

"Hmm," Natasha said, and wished the coffee would percolate faster. 

Hot liquid burbled into the cup. Barnes shifted a little closer. "Did it go poorly?"

Natasha rattled through the cupboards, checking out what was there. "He's all right," she said. "He's back here." 

Barnes caught her arm and she tensed, staring at his fingers around her bicep. She looked up at him slowly, putting an ice wall between them.

"Now, c'mon," Barnes said with a boyish smile. "Don't be like that. Nat, what's wrong?" 

She stared at him. Finally, he dropped her arm and stepped back with a sad sigh. "Okay. I'm the only one who gets to be hurt. I got it."

Nat stared at her cup of coffee, at the perfect oily sheen of it. "They tortured him," she said at last, in a flat voice. "I should have gotten there sooner."

"Ah, hell," Barnes said quietly, as if he knew what that was like. He didn't tell her she was wrong, that she'd done her best, that it wasn't her fault. He turned to face the counter, too, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed. His hand lingered at the small of her back, and after a minute she unbent and leaned against him gently. He cupped her shoulder, keeping her close. He smelled of soap and deodorant and heat. He didn't offer words that wouldn't help. He just stood with her and let her sip her coffee. 

**

It was the scent of tea, cinnamon and spice, that brought Bruce gently out of slumber. He inhaled and caught the baby-smell of Timoteo, listened to the clink and rattle of dishware in a room nearby, heard soft voices speaking. He opened his eyes slowly. 

He remembered falling asleep to the movie Pepper and Tony were watching. He didn't remember laying full-length on the couch, or pulling a blanket around himself, or getting a pillow. Morning light spilled through the long windows behind the big television, making the sky glow. Skyscrapers reached upward, like concrete and glass sunflowers greeting the day.

"Morning, sleepy," Pepper said, coming around to the front of him and smiling. She held two mugs, and set one down on the coffee table before him. "Your tea." 

"Thanks," he said, and winced at the sleep-roughened tone to his voice. Carefully, he extracted one arm from the blankets, shifted his grip on Timoteo, and sat up. He made a face and wiped off his cheek; he'd drooled in his sleep.

Pepper's smile was more in her eyes than her mouth. She sat on the end of the couch as his feet vacated, facing him. "We tried to take the baby from you last night," she said, "but you wouldn't let him go. I figured you'd been sleeping together, so you probably wouldn't roll on him."

"Yeah," Bruce said with a huff of air, carefully covering Timoteo with the blanket so the temperature change wouldn't shock him awake, then reaching out to get his mug. "Thank you." 

Pepper flicked her lids in response. 

"What time is it?"

"Seven-thirty." Pepper sipped, leaned back, relaxed. "Child Protective Services will be here in an hour." 

Bruce looked down at the tiny face sucking on an equally tiny fist. "It's going to be weird, not having him with me."

"Are you going to be okay?"

Again, Bruce gave a huff of a humorless laugh. "I withstood a lot to keep him safe. I think I can withstand some separation anxiety." Though his heart twisted. He'd always expected this would be in his future; a wife, children, a home. But that wasn't his life now, and couldn't be his life. Better for Timoteo to have a stable family than a Hulk. 

Tony came into view, raking fingernails across his ribs as he yawned. "Hope you'll stay a while this time, big guy. I mean, I built you a floor."

"What?" Bruce asked in surprise. 

" _I_ built you a floor," Pepper said, but the sharp words were belied by a little smile. 

Bruce stared at her. "Why would you do that?"

Tony stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder. "Why not? I'm rich and eccentric. If I want to build floors for everyone in my tower, I can."

" _I_ can," Pepper said from behind her mug. " _He_ didn't even know about it until I told him."

Tony shrugged. "True." He slurped his coffee. 

"That's..." Bruce was at a loss for words. Sometimes, being around the super-rich was surreal. "That's incredibly generous of you."

"Well, after the alien catastrophe," Pepper said, "I thought we might need a place for people to rest, or a war room to make plans. That sort of thing." She reached back and patted Tony's hip. "The Tower had to be repaired, anyway. Though I didn't expect Tony to refuse to return to New York." 

"I'm rich and eccentric," Tony repeated with faux exasperation. "Never expect anything from me." He slurped, frowned, and said, "How many floors did you re-purpose?"

"Oh, ten," Pepper responded airily. "I wasn't sure how many people there were. I figure if we don't need that many, we can convert them." 

"But you stuck everyone in little suites."

"Mmm," Pepper agreed. "I didn't want to just throw it on people, on top of everything else." 

Tony looked like he had more to say -- Tony always had more to say -- but then Timoteo began fussing. 

"I, uh, have to go wash my hair." Tony gave the baby a panicky look. "The goatee takes a lot of upkeep, you know." He skedaddled from the room, whistling.

"I'll get a bottle ready," Pepper said, rising with her usual grace. "There's a box of diapers by the door."

Bruce tossed the blanket aside, standing. He felt raw and worn out, but safe. It was good to be safe.

**

Tony had better things to do than think about Bruce, who he couldn't fix anyway. The problem was, no matter how loud he blasted his music or threw himself into the new suit, he couldn't keep his mind off the way Bruce had looked at them, stepping away from Thor. He'd look... shattered.

Bruce wasn't supposed to look shattered. 

Tony realized he'd been soldering the wrong pieces together, and with a curse threw them across the room. He shoved backward, his wheeled chair spinning away from that work station and coming to a halt at another. 

The suit might have worked against aliens, but it had done fuck-all with Killian and couldn't have kept Bruce from being tortured. Tony glared out the bank of windows at the city below, and the sky that hadn't opened up again. The familiar awful, heart-racing feeling, the sense that he couldn't catch his breath, started... and slowed. He took several deep breaths and stared, obstinately, at the sky.

A plane went by.

Then some birds.

A pigeon crapped on the window, which required some aim. Tony picked up his mug and saluted the bird. "Well done." He sipped. Then he tore his gaze away from the outdoors, and looked around the nearest workstation.

Bits and pieces of metal and holographic post-it notes littered the table top. Schematics of arms and ideas of how to make it lightweight caught his attention. The real question, of course, was: Did Bucky want another weapon, or a simple prosthetic?

Not that anything Tony made would be simple. Even if it was a prosthetic, it wouldn't be hard to make it easily upgradable. He pulled up the scans he'd taken after he'd found blood within the arm -- he hadn't mentioned that to anyone -- and spun them this way and that.

They hadn't exactly _removed_ the guy's arm. There was some bone in the upper half, spliced with metal. Muscle twisted down and through to the elbow, and circuits tied into nerve endings. It was brilliant. Disturbing and diabolical, but brilliant. He imagined it had required dozens of surgeries to get it right -- especially since they'd started in the forties -- and had probably hurt for a long time. Maybe it was good that Bucky's memory was so shot. 

Whistling, Tony shut down the plans and picked up his coffee. "JARVIS, is Bucky awake?"

"Yes, sir, in his quarters with Ms. Romanov."

Tony rode the elevator up, leaning against the wall with his ankles crossed, his mind elsewhere. He really hoped Bucky would, at least some day, let him weaponize the arm. There were so many possibilities, other than just 'extra strong.' HYDRA hadn't had any inspiration.

When the elevator opened on the floor with the suites, Steve was coming down the hall off another elevator. Tony took an obvious sniff. "Heyyy, you smell like peaches," he said, deadpan and lying through his teeth. "Guess the serum really did make you Mr. Perfection, huh? Bet your farts smell like roses."

Steve didn't rise to the bait. "Good morning, Tony." 

Tony opened his mouth to keep going, figuring _something_ had to get a reaction, but Steve was already swiping the keycard and opening the door.

And then he stopped in the doorway, and Tony ran into him. It was like running into a wall, which was cliched but true. Damn. He hated being cliched.

It was like running into a 747. Yeah, that was better. 

Tony stood on tiptoe to see over Steve's shoulder, and caught sight of Nat standing by the couch, cradling a cup of coffee and clearly having just jerked to her feet. Bucky was clambering up, his arm retracting from the back of the sofa, looking completely annoyed. Tony tipped his head and stage-whispered, "I think you just cock-blocked your buddy."

Nat gave the tiniest eye roll and then pinned Tony with a flat stare. "There was no cock blocking."

Tony perked up. "We get a show?"

"Criminy, Stark," Steve said with irritation, and continued into the room. "Glad you two are getting along."

He didn't _sound_ glad, but Tony slipped past him farther into the room. "Look, before the drama unfolds, I need to talk to Bucky." He flicked his fingers dismissively at Steve. "Take your jealousy elsewhere."

For an instant, he thought Steve was finally going to break. Then Steve's ridiculously impressive jaw muscle clenched -- really, no one should be that beautiful and still masculine, it was just annoying -- and he turned to Nat. "Can I talk to you?"

"Of course." She, naturally, was completely composed. 

Steve spoke to Bucky as they headed toward the bedroom. "Holler if you need anything." 

Bucky stepped forward, eyes narrowed, and Tony blocked his path. "Hang on. You can go defend what's yours in a second, but I need you." He wasn't actually sure _which_ of those two were Bucky's, but that was Bucky's business.

Slate gray eyes fixed on him. "You really like poking at him, don't you?"

Tony didn't have to ask who Bucky was referring to. He gave a sharp smile. "What can I say? He was my father's pride and joy. Mr. Perfect Pants needs to loosen up a little."

Bucky looked at him oddly. "Mr. Perfect Pants? Believe me, he's not perfect. And he loosens up just fine when someone's not picking on him. He--" Bucky's eyes drifted, and his brow furrowed. Then his gaze dropped in defeat. "Never mind." 

Tony hated awkward silences. "So! Your arm. Tell me what you're thinking. Clearly, Nat likes the metal, but we can come up with something a little less dense. But then if we ever added to it it would change the weight, so it might be better to have something about equal to this one. Plus, I'd rather not throw your balance off. Does the weight of the current one bother you?" Tony peered at what he could see of it in the sling.

Bucky edged back and to one side, blocking Tony's view of the arm. "The weight's fine. I'm used to it," he said warily.

"Okay." Tony slurped his coffee and gave the man some space, but walked around to where he could see the arm again. Or would have been able to, if Bucky wasn't wearing a thermal. "You're stifling my creativity. Do you want it to look natural? Metal? Frankenstonian? Is that right, or would it be Frankenstienien?" 

"Keep it metal." Bucky's expression was hard. 

The bedroom door opened, and Nat and Steve walked out. Steve looked a little frustrated. Nat looked like Nat. 

"Steve," Bucky said, "can I have a chat with you?" He jerked his head toward the bedroom.

Nat strode toward the door and the two soldiers headed to the bedroom, ignoring Tony's protests. With a melodramatic sigh, he followed Nat to the elevator. "Men," he said in his best gay-boy voice.

One corner of Nat's mouth twitched. Score. 

**

"What the hell was that?" Bucky asked, hot on Steve's heels as they entered the room.

Steve went on the defensive. "What do you mean, what was that?" He frowned, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling at Bucky. And this _was_ Bucky. The Bucky of old, with a dame on each arm and dimples in his cheeks. 

Except he wasn't dimpling now. "You know what I'm talking about. What did you say to her?" 

Steve took a deep breath and tried to regain his temper and the high ground. "We just talked. That was all." It clearly wasn't enough for Bucky, so he continued, "I pointed out what you've been through, and she agreed--"

"Wait, wait, wait," Bucky interrupted. "What I've been through?" His eyes flashed. "What do you know about what I've been through? Nat has a better idea--"

"Which is why she should know better!" Steve yelled. 

Silence hung between them. 

"Is it that you don't want to share?" Bucky asked, coldly calculating. Steve tensed. This was the part of Bucky he'd forgotten; the temper sheathed in ice and hidden with an ill-intentioned smile. He wasn't smiling now, but the frozen scalpel of his words still knew where to cut. "Or that you don't like me being happy? Or maybe you just don't like Nat. Or me and Nat. Or maybe since _you_ haven't acclimated, you don't want me to. Pick one, Steve!" He turned and stalked out of the room.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Was he in the right, here? Bucky was balanced on an edge so slim Steve couldn't see it. Messing with things like women and emotions and sex when he could, at any moment, have a flashback or -- or whatever he had just seemed _foolish_. 

Except that he couldn't exactly hurt Nat. Not without his metal arm in working order, anyway. And who knew, maybe something to focus on would actually help. 

And maybe Steve should stay out of other adults' relationships. Grudgingly, he had to admit Bucky was right: Steve didn't want to share. He didn't want to lose Bucky again when he'd just gotten his friend back.

Ready to swallow his words and offer an apology, he shuffled back into the main room. Bucky stood in the middle of it, still and composed.

"Bucky," Steve said to the floor, hating this part, "I--" 

Bucky still hadn't moved.

Steve looked. He _looked_ , and realized it wasn't Bucky at all. The Winter Solider turned his head slowly, until he could see Steve over his shoulder. Steve took a breath, preparing for an attack. But the Winter Solider only stood there.

"Bucky?" Steve walked carefully forward, circling around until he could see Bucky from the front. Bucky's eyes moved, tracking him, but his head remained fixed. There was nothing familiar in that gaze. 

"Solider," Steve tried, using the command voice he'd developed in the military. 

Bucky's head came up, and the tension in his shoulders loosened.

"Stand down."

With a soft sigh, Bucky relaxed fully. 

"Sit," Steve said, gesturing to a chair.

Bucky did so with an economy of motion that was so unlike him that it was frightening. 

Steve put his hand on Bucky's shoulder and didn't let his heartbreak into his words. "Stay there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THREE CHAPTERS LEFT. I'm totally excited. I'll try and get them all up today.


	14. Chapter 14

It was just after lunch, and Clint's breath on Sam's cheek still smelled like the hot dogs they'd grabbed from a vendor. Sam didn't mind it. 

"Just let the string roll off your fingers," Clint murmured, and Sam released the arrow.

It flew three feet wide and two feet high. 

"Damn it!" Sam stepped off the mark and shook his head, while Clint laughed. "I know I was aiming straight on--"

"That's the problem." Clint took the bow with an easy grace. Sam had found it at a hobby shop, a simple recurve painted pink with hearts and flowers dancing along the edge. "Each bow has it's own opinion, unless you've got something really high powered." He took an arrow from the quiver and slotted it into place. "You have to woo them. Gently." 

"Gentle my ass," Sam grumbled with good nature. He stood back and watched the play of muscles as Clint drew, aimed, and fired. Of course, Clint hit dead center. 

Clint turned with a smirk, offering the bow. "You have to be nice to the ladies." 

Sam took the bow, grasping Clint's hand with his and bringing Clint closer. "And what about the boys?" He let his voice drop and a smile linger on his mouth.

Clint licked his lips. "Ahhh... it helps if you're nice to them, too." 

"Mmm." Sam smiled suggestively, then plucked up the last arrow in the quiver and aimed again. This time, he aimed three feet low and to the left.

This time, he made the target. "Take _that_!" he shouted at it, and then whooped.

Clint laughed, sliding sunglasses on. "Nice job. You winged it."

"Better than missing." Sam grinned.

They waited for others on the range to stop shooting, then walked out to retrieve their arrows. Afternoon sun beat down on their heads and shoulders, and warmed the grass beneath their feet. The lawn let out a green, earthy scent that seemed right with the world. 

Clint hadn't had an episode once that day. Sam didn't count stealing the ketchup and mustard packets from the vendor and pocketing them. Keeping Clint focused was the key, and at least for one day it was easy. 

"Okay," Sam said, back at their mark and fitting an arrow to the string. "Down and to the left." 

Clint stepped up behind him to sight, as if it might somehow help. He was so close that Sam could feel his body heat and smell the light sweat that sunshine had brought out. He liked Clint's smell.

"Like that," Clint said, fingers skimming along Sam's arm to pull it back farther. Sam's muscles were protesting, fatigued from pulling the bow taut over and over again. It was worth it for that touch and the way Clint stood so close. 

"Now," Clint murmured in his ear, "don't let go of the string. Just let it go back to its resting place." 

Again, Sam hit the target. Still on the outside edge, but it was better. Clint didn't move away, and Sam could hear the smile. "Nice shot."

It took only a quarter turn to share breath with Clint, and a tilt of Sam's head to bring their lips together. There was a moment's hesitation in Clint before he responded. Sam's intent was to keep it light, but he could feel it the moment Clint shifted. The moment impulse won out and Clint went from an in-public summertime fling to something more serious. It was a change in the way Clint stood, a pressure in Clint's heavily muscled chest. 

Sam put a hand on that same chest and pushed gently. Then harder. Then hard enough to shove Clint back a step. As soon as he let the pressure up Clint moved forward again, so again Sam increased the pressure. "It's not fair," Sam said with overplayed distress, "that I have to be impulse control for both of us." 

Clint's Adam's apple bobbed once, twice. His eyes cleared, and his breathing steadied out. "Tell me about it," he agreed, knotting a hand in his T-shirt as if that was the only way he kept from grabbing Sam. The hoodie had been left over a chair as they'd warmed up. 

Never removing his hand from Clint's chest, Sam shoved the bow at him. "Your turn." Time to focus Clint on something else.

Clint took it with a relieved expression, stepping up to the mark briskly and yanking two arrows from the quiver. He shot one high, the other already fitting to the string, and shot again. The high arrow spun and hit the target.

Sam snorted. "Nice shooting. Watched 'Robin Hood' as a kid, huh?"

Clint gave him a confused look.

"You know." At the further blank look, Sam sang, "'Robin Hood and Little John, runnin' through the forest, jumpin' fences, dodging trees and tryin' ta--'"

Startled hilarity was blooming on Clint's face now, but no recognition. "You cannot sing," Clint said, and started to laugh.

Sam laughed along, a little embarrassed, and shoved another arrow at Clint. "Oh, shut up and shoot."

"It's your turn, Little John," Clint said, and burst into further laughter. 

Sam didn't pay much attention to where he was aiming, focused more on Clint. "You can't tell me you don't know who Robin Hood is." His shot went wide, and he pressed the bow into Clint's chest.

"Oh, sure I know Robin Hood," Clint said. His blue eyes twinkled merrily. "I've just never heard that song." He wasn't paying much attention either, but his shot still hit the mark.

"It's Disney!" He circled Clint, taking the bow, and fired again. "How can you not know Disney?"

"Not a whole lot of TV watching when you're traveling." Clint circled him, taking the bow -- then linked his arm and spun him around, skipping. "Robin Hood and Little John, jogging through the jungle--"

"Running through the forest," Sam corrected, allowing himself to be pulled into a maypole circle with Clint and laughing.

"--bedding girls and shooting bows and trying to get laaaaid!" 

People were looking, now. Sam kept laughing, amused and embarrassed but mostly having fun. This was an entertaining Clint, but the high of no impulse control danced in his eyes, and Sam knew it wasn't a _normal_ Clint. "You can't sing, either," he pointed out. "Even if you can string a rhyme together."

Clint stopped instantly, put his hand to his mouth, and started making rap noises. "I'm stringing a rhyme, it's my time, I--" 

"Okay, Eminem." Sam shook his head, throwing an arm around Clint's shoulders as if he could steady out Clint's emotions. "Your turn to shoot." Keep him focused.

Clint took the bow and arrows, but Sam stayed too close for him to aim easily. "Can you see where my last arrow went?" Sam asked.

"Sure." Clint pointed past the target. "Half buried in the wall over there."

"Can you shoot it?" He could _feel_ Clint settle again, focus bringing his mind back down. 

"I can take the fletching right off the top." 

Sam didn't move back as Clint drew and targeted. He shared body heat, bringing his hand around and settling it on Clint's hard abdomen. He felt Clint's breath, inhale, and as he exhaled he released the string. It was a movement of beauty, and the arrow was gone. 

Clint nodded firmly and stepped into the field to retrieve it. 

People were still shooting, and some of the archers weren't even as talented as Sam. Sam caught Clint and swung him around, turning so their backs were to the field with Clint still tucked close under Sam's arm.

"Fuck," Clint breathed as he realized his mistake. "I appreciate your help."

"Yeah," Sam answered, like it was no big deal. "No problem."

"I fucking hate that I need it."

Sam rubbed Clint's stomach and chest, not sure what to say to that or how to answer the bitter tone in Clint's voice.

"It's like being drunk when it happens. And it happens more and more." 

"You've been good today."

"When I'm focused," Clint corrected. His ribs expanded against Sam's arm and fell again. His body rested, lightly, against Sam's. 

Then the horn went off, and the archers all walked into the field to retrieve their arrows.

Clint had, in fact, taken the faux feathers right off Sam's arrow. Sam shook his head in amazement. He could barely even see the arrow, much less aim for it. "We're going to get you better, you know." He waggled the broken arrow at Clint.

Clint grunted, yanking more of Sam's missed arrows from various surfaces. "Sure, Sam." He didn't sound like he believed it.

"I have a plan." Sam wasn't sure it was developed enough to be considered a plan, but Clint needed some hope.

"Send me to HYDRA? They've probably got the experimental dosage that SHIELD had me on." Clint walked back to the target and started pulling his own arrows free.

"Not send you to HYDRA. A better plan." Sam grinned, and finally Clint glanced at him and gave a grudging smile. 

"I have a plan," Clint said. "It involves sex."

"Later." Sam's smile lessened and warmed. "After my plan." 

Clint mock-pouted and headed back to the mark.

**

"So what did you two love birds get up to today?" Tony asked, leaning across the dining table, a drink in hand.

Nat glanced at Clint and Sam, sitting side by side, and felt a wave of remorse. Clint was drowning, and she'd known it, but she'd had her plate full. And Clint had always been one to land on his feet. 

Now, though, her plate wasn't full. Now all her little ducks were back in a row, and she felt at loose ends. Bruce was still pale, but his skin was unblemished. Gone were the scars the handcuffs had left on one wrist; now it was only his mind that carried them. Someone else would have to tend to those.

Steve was taking care of Barnes, and had made it quite clear what he thought of her spending too much time with his friend. She hadn't decided yet whether or not she was going to do what Steve clearly wished. 

But she supposed she didn't need to feel remorse at dumping Clint and all his issues on Sam and Steve's doorstep; he had, after all, landed on his feet.

Sam's response to Tony's question brought her back to the meal.

"Clint was teaching me how to shoot."

"Attempting," Clint said to his plate. "I was _attempting_ to teach you how to shoot."

Sam's grin was wide and guileless, and Nat liked it. 

Jane leaned forward, coming out of Thor's shadow for a moment. Nat liked Jane, too, though they hadn't really spoken. There was a spark there, just waiting to build into a coal that wouldn't ever go out. She was taking her time to settle in, but Nat could respect that. "You all fought at the Battle for New York, right?"

"Not me," Sam said. "I just helped bring down HYDRA."

At the same time, Tony yelled, "No talking politics at the dinner table!"

"How is an alien invasion politics?" Clint asked, and Nat -- only Nat, she was sure -- could see the fleeting look of shock over his face. He hated talking about anything to do with Loki and what had happened, but here he was, keeping it going just to irritate Tony.

"Any war is political," Tony shot back.

Steve piped up next, looking like he was simply offering an opinion. Nat could see the widening of his blue eyes, though, and knew that he was baiting Tony. From the smirk lingering on Barnes' mouth, he knew it, too. "Sometimes they're religious."

"The aliens _were_ led by a god," Clint added.

"No talking religion at the dinner table, either. Am I the only one who has manners?" Tony pointed his fork at Steve and glared.

Pepper spoke next, humor in her eyes. "I think, actually, when there's a god at your dinner table religion is also allowed."

Thor smiled, one cheek pouched with food, and gave a short bow.

Tony turned to look at Pepper. "Whose side are you on?"

Her smile was teasing. "No sides here. Just amiable discussion."

Jane fairly twinkled. "Well, having been in a few religious battles myself," she glanced at Thor and then back to the group, "I'd just like to say, thank you."

"You're welcome," Tony answered.

"Oh, no." It was the first time Bruce had spoken all night, and Nat heard the roughness in his voice. "You can't ban religious and political talk and then take credit when someone thanks us on that topic." 

Tony's rebuttal was stopped by yet another person entering. Nat tensed, saw Clint and Barnes do the same. He was African-American, his head shaven, tall and slender with a swimmer's body.

"Rhodey!" Tony practically launched out of his chair. "Thor, Jane, Darcy, I told you all about my buddy Rhodey, right?"

Jane and Darcy were alternately smiling and nodding, while Thor followed Tony up. "Well met, Rhodey! Any shield brother to Tony Stark is a friend of mine!" He shook Rhodey's hand, clapping him on the shoulder. Rhodey looked a little taken aback, but to his credit he went with it.

"You didn't tell me you were having a party, Tony. I only get invited when you want to blow things up now, huh?"

Tony gestured grandly to the table. "Everyone, this is Lt. Col. James Rhodey. Rhodey... everyone." 

There was a chorus of hellos as Pepper found Rhodey a chair near Bruce, and Bruce found a smile and started introductions. 

It was controlled chaos, with pockets of conversations, Jane's laughter lighting sparks, Thor's guffaws at a ribald joke rising, Sam and Clint with their heads together, Barnes taking it in, Darcy and Steve talking across the table, noise that filled the rafters. Nat let herself be swept along in it, riding it like whitewater. 

Thor stood, a presence one couldn't deny, and raised a pint glass that looked more like a tumbler in his hand. "Are we all assembled, then? Be here every last Avenger, nay, protector of Midgard, bosom companions, blacksmiths, warlords, liaisons and family?" 

Jane was laughing silently, clearly used to his language and enjoying the others' discomfiture as they puzzled through what he'd said.

Clint spoke first. "I think I got the gist of that and yeah, we're all here." 

Thor gifted him with a warm smile and tipped his glass in Clint's direction. "Then I have a proposition."

"Uh oh," Tony murmured. "Here we go." Pepper whacked him lightly on the arm. 

"I propose that," he paused and held Jane's gaze fondly, "ere our ladies," then startled and smiled at Sam and Clint, "and lords agree," once again he addressed the table, "as the protectors of Midgard we should have a place where we might all reside in peace and harmony, until such time as we are needed. At the lady Pepper's suggestion, I propose we reside here, in the tower where it all ended at the last."

Nat leaned back in her chair, waiting for everything to shake out.

Clint looked at Sam in exasperation. "Am I the only one who doesn't understand a word that comes out of his mouth?"

Sam shrugged. "I understood the part where I got lumped in with the girlfriends. Or maybe _you_ got lumped in with the girlfriends, princess." 

Tony rounded on Pepper. "You were colluding with him!"

Before chaos could devolve, Steve cleared his throat and leaned forward. Thor was still standing. "Are you and Pepper suggesting," he brought her into the question with a sweep of his gaze, "that we all move into Stark Tower?"

"Aye," Thor said. "Avengers Tower now, I believe the lady Pepper called it." Thor grinned at her. She grinned back and took her cue, standing as well. In her trim suit and tidy pony tail, recently come from the office, she seemed a little more believable than Thor.

"There's an apartment for everyone," she said in a voice as clear as a bell. "Heavily soundproofed, two bedrooms, with private gyms as well as the public gym. We have a community floor as well -- here -- and a war room in case the Avengers are needed." She smiled wryly. "But let's hope not." With a breath, she continued. "Tony has his workroom, Bruce, I've replicated the one Tony made for you in Malibu, and Maria Hill has been kind enough to give us SHIELD's knowledge of some of your biological quirks, which have been saved and stored in what could easily become a medical floor if needed." She glanced at Thor, and they seemed to share some sort of exchange.

"You _have_ been colluding with him," Tony muttered, slouched back in his seat, his whiskey hiding half his face.

Pepper continued. "I know that some of you have no homes, now that SHIELD is gone." Her gaze lingered a moment on Nat, Steve, Barnes, Clint, and finally Bruce. Nat kept her walls firmly in place, while her respect for Pepper's speaking abilities grew. "And I know that others of you have homes and jobs to return to." She included Thor, Jane, Darcy, Rhodey, and Sam. "And others of us don't like to stay in one place for any length of time." She put her hand on Tony's shoulder with a smile at the group.

"Paparazzi is a killer," Tony muttered. He'd pulled out his phone and was flipping through it. 

"But whether you stay for a year or a day, know that we've built a home here for you." 

Nat glanced at Clint, and was a little relieved to see him looking at her. She raised her eyebrows in silent question, and he twitched one shoulder in a tiny shrug. 

What did he think?

He wasn't sure.

Nat let her gaze slid, head tipping. They didn't have anywhere else to go, and with SHIELD gone, no missions to attend to.

He chewed on his lower lip, then inclined his head. Maybe it wasn't a great idea but, hell, why not?

Nat agreed. She noticed that Barnes and Bruce had both remained silent while the rest of the group broke into speech, but when Nat cleared her throat delicately and started to talk, Steve listened. It was enough to get everyone else's attention -- except Tony, who had to be shouldered before he noticed.

Nat looked at Thor, who had returned to his seat, and then at Pepper. "Thank you," she said. "Should we remain in the suites we're currently occupying?"

Pepper's smile was brilliant. "No. The apartments each take up an entire floor. With the exception of Bruce's floor, which has been specifically reinforced for him, you can choose your own." 

"I want the top," Clint drawled.

"I'll be on the bottom." The words shaped themselves without Nat thinking about it, as did the coy smile. The facade was perfectly in place, though her heart pounded at the vulnerability of so obviously, so publicly, settling into one spot.

Barnes spoke for the first time that night, looking right at her with a smile playing on his mouth. "I'll be right above her."

Steve, then, as that apparently clinched the decision for him. His voice was dry at Barnes' obvious flirtation. "And I'll be above him." 

Pepper looked utterly pleased with the way things were shaping up. "Nat, Bruce will be just below you. Bruce, I made a guess that you'd like to be closest to the lab."

And the ground, Nat thought but didn't say. 

"I -- I don't know if it's a good idea for me to be in one place--" Bruce began, looking a little queasy. At memory, Nat thought. At a recent memory.

"Where safer than with three freaky assassin-spies and Captain America right above you?" Tony lifted his glass in silent salute, apparently having just come around to the idea. "And me, of course. Thor?"

Thor laid his arm around Jane's shoulders and looked at her. She was the one who spoke, with the assurance of someone who'd already hashed it out with her godly boyfriend. "My work is in England, so we'll be returning there. But I'm sure Thor will be out to visit frequently." 

Tony looked at Darcy. "You want a job playing nursemaid to superheros?"

Darcy gave a saucy grin. "I decided I'd rather stay with Jane. Less chance of being exploded." 

Tony laughed. "What about you, Rhodey?"

Rhodey shook his head, looking a little pained. "As a representative of the United States government, I didn't hear any of this. I don't know that the world's strongest, most dangerous, and most insane are all squatting in Tony Stark's tower. But I'll be calling if I need anything."

Tony leaned forward, flicking his finger over the screen of his phone. A hologram rose above the table. "Pepper never did fix the Stark logo; it's just that giant A still. Pep, what do you think about this design? Let's give the bad guys a warning. Avengers live here. Attack at your own risk."

"Or a target," Clint snorted.

Tony gestured to Bruce. "We have a hulk."

Clint spread his hands through the air, as if framing a glowing sign. "The incredible Hulk lives here!" 

"Jesus," Bruce breathed. Rhodey patted his shoulder in sympathy. 

"What?" Clint asked. "Half of us already have code names or superhero names. That one seems appropriate."

"What about me?" Sam asked.

"The Fancy Flier," Clint answered instantly.

Tony grinned. "Winged Wonder."

"Captain Tight Pants!" Darcy volunteered, all her teeth showing as she smiled. 

Clint snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "I like that." 

Steve cut into the impending spiral of the conversation. "But Clint might have had a point. It might not be a good idea to make ourselves a target."

"I'm... I'm not sure," Bruce repeated, almost apologetic. "Wherever I am, there's going to be someone trying to come after me." He looked right at Nat, and she tensed slightly. "When we first met, you said SHIELD was protecting me. But there is no more SHIELD. What's to stop the government from coming at me, now?"

Pepper raised her hands, calming the air. "Let's let it settle. The idea has been proposed. Think about it for a few days. Talk it over with each other. For now, let's talk about something less difficult." She smiled. "Maybe religion or politics." 

**

The rocks of his memories were starting to lodge and stay put. Bucky paused in the hall as another came back, his breath held to see whether it would be good or bad. 

The Commandos, mugging for photos at an overseas USO dance. Steve had worn the badge marking him as a dame for the night, since there simply weren't enough of them. 

Bucky leaned against the wall, breathing deeply and holding onto that memory. He needed all the good ones. He knew, now, why he'd been so afraid of meeting Steve. But Steve wasn't just goodness and honor. Or rather, he was mostly goodness and all honor, but that meant sticking by your pals when things went horribly wrong.

And God, had things gone horribly wrong. It was easy to wallow in it. It was _hard_ to step away from the atrocities he remembered doing, but he was trying. It helped, now that he knew he couldn't hurt anyone else. Not these people, anyway, and not with his metal arm nonfunctional.

The USO dance swam into a memory of another dance, an uglier one, where everyone died by his hand. No witnesses. That felt more real; he could taste the sweat of others' panic on his tongue, as they realized the doors were bolted and they were locked in with the monster. 

A hand touched his arm, and he whipped around to decapitate the enemy -- 

His arm didn't work right, though. He staggered with the dead weight of it, and saw Steve. Steve, who caught him and kept his balance. He blinked the memory away, focusing on the real world around him. Then he sagged against the wall.

"You okay?" Steve asked quietly.

The others were nearby, mostly still chatting and lounging about on couches and barstools after dinner. 

"Bucky?"

"I--" He didn't want to admit to what he'd done. Even now. "I'm still pissed at you," he said, and punched Steve's shoulder. Steve barely budged. 

"Okay," Steve said, blowing air out through pursed lips. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lectured you about your love life or interfered or -- or whatever else."

"Damn right." Bucky glared at him for good measure. The exasperated look Steve shot him was so familiar, it made Bucky breathe easier. He reached out, wrapping his flesh arm around Steve and hugging him close. He buried his face in Steve's neck and inhaled the scent he knew so well, from nights as boys oohing over stolen magazines and days as men waiting in a foxhole. "Thanks for coming for me," Bucky murmured. 

"Every time," Steve answered, hugging him back just as fiercely.

Bucky drew away and took a breath, collecting himself. "Now," he said, "I'm going to go find Nat." 

With a pained smile, Steve pulled away and raised his hands in a show of surrender. 

**


	15. Chapter 15

Bruce glanced up as Tony stumbled into his lab -- scratch that, the Stark lab. If Bruce stared thinking of it as 'his' it would be much harder to leave. 

"Please," Tony said, sprawling across the table and nearly upsetting a Bunsen burner, "tell me you've created the hangover cure."

Bruce smiled indulgently and patted Tony's dark hair, then fished a pair of sunglasses out of a drawer and offered them. Tony put them on and wrinkled his nose. 

"WalMart sunglasses."

"Not quite, but they work for me," Bruce replied. Then he swallowed the liquid concoction he'd made and grimaced.

"What was that?" Tony peered at him, still sprawled. 

Bruce sipped tea and gave a little shrug. "Basically, Paxil." 

Tony sat up slowly. "Oh. Because of..." he gestured vague circles with one hand.

"Because I can't sleep." Because he couldn't allay the keen anxiety at not having a handcuff around his wrist and a baby strapped to his chest. Because he couldn't stop his thoughts from spiraling downward.

"Will that even work, with the Big Guy in residence?"

Bruce shrugged. "I upped the dose." About ten times the amount he'd give to anyone else. It hadn't worked before, but it was still worth a shot. Nothing _bad_ had happened before, either.

Tony pulled out his phone and tapped the screen rapidly. Bruce recognized it as a nervous tic, but didn't say anything. He simply went about checking cabinets and drawers for what was there.

"If you stayed here," Tony said to his phone, "we could make sure that no one messed with you. Heck, make you a high profile celebrity and--"

"No," Bruce said firmly.

Tony glared at his screen. Then tapped again. "Okay, keep you in hiding and not let anyone know. Rhodey could help with that, you know. And who's going to mess with Thor if someone does find out?" 

"It makes this place a target. You can't have a target in the middle of Manhattan." He didn't want to level this place, too. But most of all, he didn't want to be taken again. He shuddered.

Tony flung himself off the table and into a lab chair. It rolled halfway across the room. "You drive me crazy."

"Now you know how Pepper feels."

"Awww." Tony smirked. "You just compared yourself to my girlfriend. Or secretary. I'm not sure."

"I compared myself to _you_ ," Bruce corrected, "and you to Pepper."

Tony shrugged. "Who am I going to go to when I have panic attacks because _I'm_ living in the area I hate the most?"

"Your therapist?"

"No," Tony said with irritation. "You're the only person I trust to put drugs in my body."

"Other than the man on the corner," Bruce muttered. Tony's former experiments were widely known.

Tony waved a hand at that. "Other than him."

"I'm not even a medical doctor, Tony."

"You don't have a _license_ ," Tony pointed out. "We all know you have the knowledge."

He'd gained that out of necessity and then to help people, it was true. 

"I guess that means you don't want to help me with this, either." A hologram rose between them from Tony's phone. The metal arm that Bruce had seen on Steve's friend, scattering quickly into pieces to expose the bone and tendon threading into the wires and cords underneath. Bruce stared, part of him horrified, part of him mesmerized. He rubbed the back of his head, where they'd tried to drill into his skull. 

Tony gave him a long time to look, then spoke. "I don't really think this should become public knowledge, y'know?"

That went without saying. Bruce turned the image, rotated it to see into the shoulder gap,   
pulled off the outside layers and looked at the inner wet work. "They did this to him?"

"Repeatedly." 

Bruce swallowed bile. 

"We all have secrets we don't want shared," Tony said. "Who are we going to trust except each other? And if you leave, that makes us vulnerable. Not because you'd tell, but because we trust you to help us. Without you to help..."

Bruce shot Tony a brief suppressive look at the guilt attempt, then went back to the hologram. "I'm not qualified for surgery, Tony," Bruce said absently. His mind twisted between what had been attempted on him, and what had been done to this young man. It wasn't so different, really, except that this man -- Bucky -- had been held for decades, not days. 

Bruce shuddered again. 

"You can't go missing if we know you're supposed to be here," Tony pointed out. "Be here, be calm, do your work. Mix up your medications and, hey, study Steve."

Bruce turned the hologram again. "Tell me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you have to remove this arm to make it a more normal prosthetic. You could leave the existent bone and muscle in place and just change out the software."

"I already know that," Tony sighed, and the hologram vanished. "I was just trying to get you to stay."

Bruce smiled wanly at him. "I'll think about it."

**

Steve lingered in the empty community room, looking out the big windows on a view of the city he still wasn't used to. 

Bucky was in their suite, and he felt he should go back. But even Captain America needed a break. 

When Nat entered he glanced at her. She paused, watching him warily. He remembered Bucky's words: they thought he wanted them to be people they weren't. The disagreement he'd had with Nat about Bucky surely hadn't helped. He put it all aside and gave her a wan smile. "I needed some fresh air."

She nodded and walked slowly closer. She went past him, then tapped on the solid glass. "I don't think they open."

He felt foolish. Steve glanced at his sneakers and said, "No, of course not. I just meant--" How could he say that he needed out of the room with his best friend who was a total stranger? 

The silence was becoming uncomfortable. "I didn't understand," Steve blurted out. Then he felt even more foolish. "You tried to tell me. About Bucky. That he wasn't really Bucky." He snuck a look at Nat, and wished he'd never asked her to stop canoodling with his friend. There was a wall between them, now. Or maybe it had been there before, and he'd been too wrapped up in Bucky to realize it. The urge to confess rode him hard. "I thought I could make him better. But he's not bad. He's just... different." He looked at her then, and willed her to understand this like she understood so much else. "Different isn't bad. But I miss him, and I feel guilty for it."

Nat approached him slowly, her expression unreadable. "It's okay to grieve who he was," she said quietly. "It makes you human." 

He knew that was true in his head, but hearing her say the words lifted a weight off his chest. He reached out and put a hand on her arm, clasping it gently in lieu of the hug he would have preferred. "Thanks." 

She smiled at him. Something was restored, he thought. Or maybe she'd never stopped being someone he could talk to without judgment; maybe he'd just stopped talking, for a little while. 

Nat picked her book up off the coffee table and headed toward the elevator. Steve debated a moment, then blurted, "You're pretty amazing, Nat. Just like you are." Even with all her darkness and secrets, he didn't say and hoped she understood.

She gave him a funny look, then nodded and left the room. 

**

It was lunchtime, and Clint hadn't left his suite. Not to answer Sam, not to check out his possible floor-sized apartment, not to speak to Nat. 

They were watching him. He knew it. With each breath he could feel their mechanical eyes on him. 

He'd taken apart all the electronics in the place. The lamps, the coffee maker, the hair dryer, the door locks (those first, because he wasn't going to be locked in), taken off the light switches to check for bugs under the plates, jimmied apart the security hand pad, ripped the cupboard doors off and the drawers out, taken the mirrors off the walls, unscrewed the vent screens and the fan in the bathroom and soaked them all in the tub. 

He'd torn up the mattress, and wasn't that silly. It was too cliched to put something in the mattress or pillows (but maybe that's why they would, because it was so cliched they'd never think he'd check -- he needed to make sure there was nothing in the throw pillows).

He stood and grabbed his knife, picking up a pillow off the couch and shredding it. Nothing but stuffing came out, but of _course_ nothing but stuffing came out because they would have put a tracker in the bed frame. That would make much more sense. 

"Clint?" Nat's voice. "Your door's unlocked." 

He didn't move.

She stepped inside, glancing around at the destruction without a flicker of anything on her face. "Sam said you locked the door on him this morning. But since there's no lock now..."

"Fucking StarkTech," he muttered, feeling foolish and defensive and wondering if she'd been bugged, too. 

"Want to come up for lunch? Tony ordered Togo's." Her weight was perfectly balanced, neither for attack nor defense, but equally for both.

Clint tossed aside the pillow he'd butchered. Did she know that he'd raided the kitchen in the middle of the night? Did they all know? When they found his stash of stolen food, who was going to be angry? The god with the insane brother, finally showing his true colors? Or maybe Stark, possessive at last over his stuff. Exacting payment for the room and board he was supposedly allowing them. Clint's skin crawled. He couldn't stay here.

"You have that crazy look in your eyes again," Nat said quietly. "Trust me, Clint. You always have."

He licked dry lips and nodded. If he couldn't trust Nat, who could he trust? But what if Nat had been turned? 

"I can't breathe," he whispered.

She came toward him then, striding with the confidence he so badly needed. "Sit. Head between your knees. You're fine." 

She put her hand at the nape of his neck and pushed down. He heard tapping, and then, "Sam? Could you come to Clint's suite?"

"Don't want him to see this," Clint mumbled.

"Pretty sure he's seen worse out of you." She squeezed his neck, holding him there gently. "Keep breathing."

Clint knew when Sam walked in, because Sam swore and said, "What happened here?"

"So he hasn't done this before," Nat said by way of answer.

"I'm pretty sure I'd remember this."

"'He' is right here," Clint muttered. Sam knelt beside him. Then Sam laid down, inching so his head was between Clint's feet and he could look up at Clint. 

"What happened?" Sam asked.

They were going to find his stash, and someone was going to beat him for it. 

No one could beat him anymore. He'd made sure of that.

In the suit, Stark could beat him. Nat could beat him. Steve and Bucky could both beat him, and he was meat to Thor. 

It all came out in one long, breathless rush. "When I was a kid my dad would hit us black and blue because we were eating something he'd saved but we didn't know he was saving it or 'cause money was short that month and he said we ate too much and I've got a stash now and no one but no one is going to beat me for eating because I-- I--" He licked his finger and hooked it in Sam's nose before he could stop himself, impulse there and gone again, and _what the hell was the matter with him_. He wrenched himself out from under Nat's stabilizing hand and flung himself across the room, vaulting the remains of the coffee table and the peninsula that cordoned off the kitchenette and the rest of the room, unable to stop his movements until they were already done.

He slammed into the corner, rolling to face the others, smacking his head back against the wall as if that could maybe dislodge whatever was wrong in his brain. Clint gasped for air. "Fucking _Loki_ ," he snarled, and closed his eyes, too overwhelmed to keep going.

Then Sam was there, and Nat was there, and he flinched because he'd told them about the stash but no one was beating him ever again. Ever. 

"Was it like this before?" Sam asked.

Clint pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "They sent me on missions and then when I lost it completely they locked me up until they found the right cocktail but now SHIELD is HYDRA and the cocktail's gone." 

Clint heard Nat, though he didn't know if he was supposed to. "It's gotten worse."

"No shit," Sam answered. 

"Clint," Nat said brusquely. "Let's go for a run."

_Run_. Yes. He could do that. Keep running forever and ever.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Sam asked dubiously. Sam was a wily one. Clint peered at him suspiciously.

"Sure." Nat shrugged, but Clint could see that look she got. The one that said, 'It's all fucked up anyway, can't make it worse, the suicide leap might just work and either way we're dead.' She looked at Clint, then. "Let's see if exhaustion helps, huh?"

And if he really tried to bolt, he knew her stamina was better than his. He nodded. "Let's go for a run," he agreed hoarsely. She was right; he was dead anyway. Maybe the suicide leap would work.

**

Sam approached Jane uncertainly, holding three empty prescription bottles in his hand. "Jane, right?" He smiled.

She smiled back, and he relaxed a little. "Sam. There's so many people here, I can barely remember everyone." Her laugh was friendly. 

He sat down on the chair next to her, propping his elbows on his knees. "Tell me about it. But I seem to recall hearing you're a doctor...?" 

He saw the moment she caught sight of the pill bottles, and her smile changed to one of apology. "Not that kind of doctor. I have a Ph.D in astrophysics."

"Damn." He stared at the bottles.

"But Dr. Banner -- he's not a medical doctor, either, but his area of expertise might at least cover..." She gestured to the bottles, as if at a loss as to what they might mean. 

"That... might work," Sam said slowly, feeling hopeful once more. 

Jane stood. "Come on. He's in his lab, and I've been dying to get a look." She looked like a kid promised an ice cream, and Sam felt better than he had all morning. 

It was easy to be around Jane. She was, he thought, just the type of happy-serious minded individual who would have attracted him a few months earlier. 

"Dr. Banner is quite the genius in his field," she enthused, leading the way to the elevator.

"Oh? And what is his field?" 

"What _isn't_ his field?" Jane stepped in and pushed the button for -- Sam could only assume -- the lab level, and the doors closed. "I mean, I don't understand all of what he does because it's more biology and less, well, space, but even I know he's quite respected." She paused, thinking, then added, "Especially for a wanted fugitive." 

Sam laughed. 

The doors opened into a tiled foyer with only one other way out. That door had little post-it notes in Stark's hand writing on it: Work In Progress, Hazardous Materials Beyond, and Enter At Your Own Risk.

Jane knocked politely. "Dr. Banner?"

"Come in," he called from the other side. 

She shared an excited look with Sam, then pushed the door open. "Dr. Banner, Sam brought me something that I thought you might be able to help him with."

"Dr. Foster, please, it's just Bruce." He pulled his glasses off and smiled, looking almost embarrassed at her formality.

"And it's just Jane," she responded, then practically danced away, looking around the lab. "Wow, this is top of the line."

"From Tony? Of course." Bruce watched her for a moment, as if making sure she wasn't about to disturb anything, then focused on Sam. "How can I help?"

Sam hesitated, looking at the pill bottles, not sure if he was about to break a confidence or not. But something had to be done, and Clint wasn't in his right mind to ask. "Do you know what Loki did to Clint?"

Bruce's smile was replaced by solemnity. "I do."

That had caught Jane's attention, as well. "Does he have Erik's symptoms? Loss of... well, pants, a seeming extra genius with Asgardian theories of travel?"

"No," Sam said, frowning. "More like extreme paranoia and a tendency to--" He stopped himself from mentioning the hoarding, and instead went with, "steal things." 

"Hmm." Bruce paced slowly, chewing on one earpiece of his glasses. Then he stopped and looked at both of them, gaze switching between. "But you're really describing the same thing, aren't you? They were mind controlled, but still allowed the freedom of their own thoughts. More like... Mind guided. Strip away impulse control, you get someone who removes their pants or someone who steals things. Boost their own natural abilities, and you might get someone who can theorize about Asgardian travel or," he gave Sam a sympathetic look, "an assassin who is extra paranoid." 

It made sense. It didn't matter. Sam stepped forward with the bottles. "He was on these. He said it was an experimental cocktail that SHIELD had finally come up with. It was working. He was stable. He _said_ it was experimental, but I thought, maybe, it was actually something rare that we could... refill?" It sounded so pathetic, now that ht was saying it out loud. His plan, he realized sucked.

But neither Jane nor Bruce looked like they felt the same way. Bruce took the bottles, sliding his glasses back on to read the labels. Jane watched with interest. 

"No," Bruce said slowly. "But--" He removed a cap and peered inside, then dug through a drawer to bring out a swab. "--If I can analyze the compound I might be able to come up with a similar solution. The amounts would be off..." He ran the swab around the inside of the bottle and dropped it in a vial, then did it again and dropped that swab in a liquid mixture. "It'll give us a place to start," he muttered, setting the bottles aside and getting out a glass slide. 

Jane caught Sam's arm, smiling. "I know that look. We'd better let him get to it; he won't be aware of us, anyway."

Sam craned his neck to watch a little bit longer as they exited the lab. Then he sighed in relief and looked at Jane. "Erik get that look?"

"I'm told I do." She laughed silently. "If anyone can help Clint, I'm sure Bruce can." 

The elevator came, and Sam stepped inside. "I hope so. He's a good man."

"An amazing one, really." Sam glanced at her, wondering what she knew about Clint. She continued. "To have been dosed with that much radiation and not only survive, but continue doing good for the world while dealing with the Hulk and escaping international attention? It's just incredible."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah. Incredible."

**

They'd run for four hours, then walked for another two. They'd back-traced their route while Clint returned some of the things he'd stolen on the run. Even he'd finally admitted they wouldn't be able to return the rest, so they'd called a cab and rode back to the Tower. 

At least exhaustion had worked. The half-panicked look was out of Clint's eyes, and Sam had been there to catch him when they'd landed. 

Nat showered the sweat off and, after a long time thinking about it, decided checking on Barnes wouldn't be out of the question. 

Just to make sure all her ducks were in a row.

He and Steve were arguing, but not heatedly, when she knocked on the door. She could hear their voices even as Barnes walked to answer it. 

"It's not like either of us has anywhere else to go," he said loudly, and then the door opened. He smiled at her, and something in her eased. "Hey there, beautiful."

Her eyebrows popped up. "So I'm talking to the World War II version of you right now."

"Awww, that's not funny." He ran his hand through his hair and stepped aside so she could come in. "Talk some sense into him, would you? Staying here is perfect."

Steve was tidying up an art project, picking up pencils and a couple of erasers off the coffee table, flipping a large sketchbook closed, stacking slide rules on top of it. "I just don't know if it's a good idea for us all to collect in the Tower," he said.

Nat shrugged. "You wouldn't have to worry about your neighbors getting hurt in another attack." Very subtly, she stressed "another."

He gave her a wry look. "Yeah, I suppose not." He picked up his things and stood. "I'm guessing you'd like some space?"

"Go move into that apartment." Barnes jerked his head toward the door.

Steve snorted a laugh and walked past them. Nat watched him go with some surprise, more when he closed the door behind him. So much for his lecture on not becoming emotionally involved with Barnes.

"You look stiff." 

She was. She rolled her head on her shoulders and shook out her arms. "Long run." Thirty-seven miles, give or take, before the walking was added to the count. Clint had set a pace to outrun his demons, and she'd kept up with it.

"Have a seat." He gestured to the couch, sitting himself in the corner and stretching one leg along the back. "Give me your feet."

Nat hesitated, then with a mental shrug she sat gracefully in the other corner, stretching her legs up toward him. With his good arm he removed her shoes and socks, then grasped her foot in his hand. His palm was warm, his fingers long enough to nearly touch around her foot. Then he dug his thumb into the arch of her foot, and she sighed and leaned her head against the back of the couch. 

"How far did you go?" 

She watched him idly, enjoying the way tendons relaxed under his ministrations. "All told? Around forty-five miles."

He thought about that a moment, then parroted, "The fastest recorded marathon runner did it in two hours and two minutes."

She nodded amiably. "The fastest recorded runner did do it in that time."

He glanced at her out of smokey gray eyes, under a fall of brown hair. "Who's faster over distance, you or Clint?"

She just smiled.

"When did you run twenty-six miles in less than two hours?"

Not if, but when. He was sharp, this one. Her eyelids drifted closed so she saw him only as a shape beyond her lashes. "Five years ago. I ran my feet bloody." 

He worked on her big toe for a moment.

"I didn't get there in time," she added on a breath. 

His fingers moved down her foot, along the outside edge, to the heel. Except for the briefest of pauses, he acted as if he hadn't heard. 

"Do the dreams ever stop?" he asked quietly. "I can't sleep for them. I wish I could forget again."

Nat looked at him, but now he'd let his hair fall further, shielding his gaze the way she'd used her lids and lashes a moment before. "No," she said, wishing she could say otherwise. "Does Steve know?"

"He knows I'm not sleeping." 

There wasn't much more to say to that. She couldn't encourage him to share when her own past was too ugly to do so. Instead, she enjoyed the massage, closing her eyes and relaxing as he moved up to her ankle, her calf, then on to the other foot. 

After a long time, he broke the silence. "I meant what I said."

She opened her eyes and looked at him, too tired to be fully expectant.

He picked up her foot, rubbing it along his cheek so his stubble rasped. But he was looking at her, a little soft. "Beautiful."

Nat pulled her foot away. She should go. Perhaps Steve was right; maybe getting emotionally tangled right now wouldn't help anyone. "I've been beautiful to a lot of people, Barnes," she said wearily. 

He caught her hand before she stood. "So I misjudged. Other things are more important." He offered a weak smile. "You're broken. Patched. Smart. Clever. Able. Graceful. Deadly. Someone who understands me. Someone I understand. Masked. Careful. Wary. Any of those better?"

Nat gave a humorless laugh and looked away. "All of them are more accurate." 

"No." He tugged her, and she let herself be pulled to rest against the back of the couch and his leg. He tugged again, and she found herself resting against his chest. He manhandled his own metal arm to lay along the top of the couch, out of the way, and wrapped his flesh arm around her. "I'll be glad when Tony fixes this damned thing," he said.

No longer threatened by compliments or romantic words, Nat relaxed a little more. "Has he talked to you any more about it?"

"Some. He wants to see me this evening." There was a note of trepidation in his voice. Nat couldn't blame him. 

"Whatever he does, it'll be better," she assured him more firmly than she felt.

"I know him. From news and government reports."

She smiled and traced the fine hairs on the back of Barnes' hand. "He's not _that_ bad." She bounced a little as Barnes chuckled.

This was... comfortable. Cautiously, she let her mask slide. She let herself melt into the body behind her. He smelled better; not so much of overripe grapes. Still too much metal, but he had a cleaner scent, now. She played with his fingers, and found he bit his nails. She wondered if there were metal nails on the other hand, but didn't look. 

He played with her hair, exhaling hot breath into it, inhaling the hot air out, rubbing his nose in a curl. Every so often he'd go lethally still and she'd wait, ready to leap if he didn't come back.

Each time, he came back.

Sometimes he told her things he'd remembered. Sometimes he didn't. 

He wrapped his legs around her. 

She turned on the radio. JARVIS was good for that. Barnes found a classical station, and sounded smug when he told her he knew she'd like it. She pulled on his arm hair, and he yelped and laughed and nuzzled her ear. 

It felt like years had slipped away when someone knocked on the apartment door. Nat started to get up, but Barnes' arm tightened. He protested, "Don't." Then called, "Who's there?"

"Me," Steve said. "Is it safe?"

Barnes' arm didn't loosen. "Stay," he asked quietly, then called, "'Course."

Nat couldn't keep from tensing, preparing to rise as Steve walked in. She wasn't comfortable reclining like this with witnesses around. Certainly wasn't comfortable in as emotionally vulnerable a position as this.

But Steve set his sketchbook in the bedroom he'd been using, walking past them as if they didn't exist. Then he came back and sat in a chair nearby, a StarkPad on his crossed knee. "I'm sorry I was an ass about you," he told them both honestly. "It wasn't my place. I'm glad to see you're getting on so well." 

There was a request for forgiveness there, Nat could read it as plainly as the title on a book. "No problem," she said, as Barnes grumbled, "That's more like it." 

Then Steve settled into reading on the tablet, and Barnes settled into a doze. 

"Friends again?" Nat asked after a very long time.

Steve smiled slightly at the screen. "Never stopped. Did we?"

Friendship that wasn't based on whether or not she was pleasing or useful. It was a new concept. "I suppose not." 

Steve swiped the screen with his finger and kept reading. He was still smiling.

**

"I forget how much Tasha can run," Clint muttered, resting his wet forehead on Sam's shoulder and letting Sam dry him off. It was weird, to be babied like this. Nice. But weird. 

Sam rubbed his wide hands over the terrycloth towel, drying Clint's back. Then he stepped away, taking the towel with him -- bastard, it was _cold_ without that -- and replacing it with a fluffy robe, instead.

"This is weird," Clint mumbled.

"What is?"

"Being coddled."

Sam chuckled, an arm around Clint's shoulders guiding him from the bathroom into the bedroom. "Didn't your mom ever coddle you? When you were sick, maybe?"

"Don't remember her." Which left only his dad, the abusive asshole. 

"You haven't had it easy, man." The words weren't really meant to be answered. More spoken on a long exhale, with a note of amazement rather than pity. 

"It made me a damn good assassin," Clint pointed out. He sat heavily on the bed, his legs feeling like rubber. He'd done good against Nat, though. He'd had little else to do while SHIELD played with his medications than work out, and his speed and stamina showed it. He could have run like that all day.

Except the sole of his shoe had given out.

And really, it got boring, after a while. 

And, okay, maybe he'd been fatigued. 

He took Sam's wallet off the nightstand when Sam turned his back, and tucked it under the flap of the robe. Which reminded him. "There's a gun in my hoodie."

Sam's glance was sharp. "What? Why?"

Clint shrugged. "Took it off someone while running. Figured they probably shouldn't have it, anyway, so I didn't try to return it." 

Shaking his head, Sam went back to the bathroom where he'd disrobed Clint. Clint stuffed Sam's wallet under the mattress, then caught a shoe with his toe and tucked that under the bed. Sam returned a moment later using the hoodie as a bag, with Clint's various stolen treasures inside it. "How did you run with all this stuff?"

Clint shrugged while Sam laid it out on the dresser and started going through it. Without turning, Sam said, "Put my wallet and shoe back, please."

Clint debated, then did so. 

Sam tossed him a yo-yo. Then a Chinese finger trap. Sam set aside the handgun. Unfolded and examined what Clint was pretty sure was a collapsible dog bowl. Then an electric car key. He turned and held it up for Clint to see.

"I tried to return it," Clint sighed, "but the car was gone when we got back. They must have had a spare." 

Sam shook his head and tossed that in the trashcan. A postcard almost followed, except Clint called, "Wait! I like that one."

Sam flicked it at him with a twist of his wrist. Clint picked it up off the bed and looked at it. A picture of a sea lion on a San Francisco pier. It looked like a cloudy day in the photo, with slate gray water and the only light coming off the wet sheen of the animal. 

"What the fuck do you see in me?" Clint muttered.

"I have no idea," Sam answered, as if it were a great mystery. "But clearly I see something in you." He turned and looked at Clint. "You seem better."

Clint nodded tiredly. "Exhaustion helps." 

Sam sat down next to him. "Are you too exhausted to make out?"

Clint perked up. "Is that possible?" 

"Sure, if--"

Clint shut him up, but it was Sam that shoved Clint over onto his back. The robe wasn't tied, so it was no surprise with Sam slipped his hand under to find warm, newly showered skin. Clint broke free to gasp, "Do _not_ make me come in ten second again, that wasn't fair--" And then Sam shut him up.

**

Bruce crunched an anti-anxiety pill and checked the chemical composition of the dust he'd pulled from Clint's meds. The likelihood he'd have all the components was zero to none, but if he could at least get a start... It helped, too, that some brilliant doctor had written the chemical composition along the top. Once Bruce had realized that was what he was looking at, all strung together with no punctuation, guesswork had gotten easier.

Not that he had access to half these drugs, but that was what Tony's resources were for. The fact that they'd be delivered in just a few hours was a major bonus.

He jotted down another note and then sat back, rubbing his eyes. Every time he closed them he heard a phantom baby's cry. He'd followed up on Timoteo as much as he could. CPS assured him that the baby was already in foster care, with possible adopters lined up. He was lucky: no drug addictions and only a few months old, so even though he wasn't a white baby he was still top of the pile for desirability. The racism inherent in that statement made Bruce take deep, calming breaths. 

He put it out of his mind. He would finish Clint's medications, and then he'd leave. They'd trapped him by cuffing him to an innocent, and he was currently in a building -- in a city -- packed full of them. He'd have to go. Make it on his own.

Except had he ever really made it on his own? Nat said that SHIELD had always known where he was, had even kept Ross off his trail a few times -- which in itself implied that Ross had been on the right track. So how long would he last without friends? His mouth went dry, and his wrist throbbed. 

Bruce leaned forward and went back to figuring out the chemical composition of Clint's meds. It kept his brain too busy to remember the weight of handcuffs on his wrist.

**


	16. Chapter 16

Bucky kept his eyes fixed on Steve. He shuddered at the well-oiled swing of his shoulder opening up to expose the wiring underneath. 

"There we are," Tony murmured, engrossed in what he was doing. Bucky took a deep breath while memory swirled around him, some of it misted in heavy sedation, some of it piercingly bright. In one he was fighting, but losing. In another he gave up and simply waited. In still a third he welcomed it as part of his mission.

"Buck," Steve said softly, rooting him now. Bucky locked eyes again, trying to hold on. Tony was babbling, but neither he nor Steve paid any attention. 

He'd sent Nat away. She'd seen him at his lowest already, and he'd rather she saw him at his best. She never looked at him with pity, but occasionally she looked at him as if he were something comforting. He liked it a lot. It gave him a sense of confidence in his world, and he wanted it to keep happening.

And then there was Steve, who'd seen him in everything, and was still here. He didn't need to impress Steve; Steve would always be here. It had taken a little while to remember that, but--

Sensation rippled through his metal fingertips, followed by the sense of burning. It was gone in a flash, but left him quivering with something akin to rage.

"Sorry, sorry," Tony said breezily, a tangle of wires spilling out of Bucky's arm and over Tony's hands in three different places. 

It made Bucky's stomach lurch to look at it. He looked away quickly and swallowed hard. 

"You should have more life-like sensation from now on," Tony said, still working. "Which also means if you punch through a wall again, it'll _feel_ like you've punched through a wall. Granted, you won't be any more able to do that than, well, me, because like you requested--" His voice took on a put-upon sound, "--I only gave you the strength of an average guy. Well, actually, it's a biofeedback loop with your other arm, so you're equally strong in both. If you get stronger or weaker, this will, too. It's a great set up. I'm pretty proud of it, since it's my first attempt at linking something into actual biology aside from myself, of course--"

Bucky tuned him back out. He gave Steve a little smile. "Thanks."

Steve squeezed his hand. "Of course." Then something Tony said made Steve get that praying-for-patience look he used to get. "I'm pretty sure you can't replace your bone marrow with nanobots."

"StarkBots," Tony corrected. He slapped Bucky's metal shoulder, and Bucky actually _felt_ it. "There you go, Bionic Man. All set."

Bucky glanced at the clock. Two hours. Then he glanced down. His arm looked just like it always had. He flexed experimentally, watching light run up and down the metal bands. There were wires and boxes and detritus he didn't begin to understand littering the ground, and he tried to think it was extra stuff Tony had been using, and not something that had come out of his arm. 

He stood and moved it again, then held his breath and punched the wall.

The drywall dented, but no hole appeared. His fist, on the other hand, felt broken. "Criminy fuckity fuck!" Bucky yowled, hopping around and cradling his metal fist. The pain faded rapidly, and he flexed his metal fingers. Nothing was actually broken.

Both Steve and Tony were watching him, Tony outright laughing, Steve looking amused.

"It does feel natural," Bucky muttered in explanation. 

"Told you," Tony said. "But it's just as durable as ever. Might hurt like nothing else, but you won't break."

And more importantly, he wouldn't break others. 

"I'm going to walk Tony out," Steve said, already escorting Tony toward the door.

Bucky just nodded, flexing his arm, marveling at the normal-feeling sensation, and relieved that he couldn't have a flashback and kill anyone. 

The relief lifted a smile onto his face.

**

"Thanks, Tony." Steve held out his hand, and Tony eyed it distrustfully for a moment before taking it.

An honest handshake from Captain America just felt... strange. Even if Captain America was currently wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt. A New York Yankees T-shirt, so maybe that was appropriate for an American icon, but a T-shirt none the less.

"That arm," Tony said quickly, before Steve retreated into the suite. "It still has the capacity for the strength it had before."

There was the frown that Tony expected. Steve firmly closed the door behind them so they were both in the hall, and leaned against it. "What do you mean? What did you remove?"

Tony glanced down at his box of treasures. "I replaced some of their old tech with better tech -- my tech. I add some fail safes, so he can only use the arm when his biometrics--" Tony stopped himself from the full explanation and waved a hand. If people of his own time wouldn't understand, the man out of time certainly wouldn’t, either. "Basically, he can only use the arm at all if he's in his right mind. But as he has fewer flashbacks or freak outs or mind control or whatever it is, and as his confidence grows and he tries to use the strength more, it'll come back." Tony grinned, pleased with himself. "There's a great little babysitter inside that arm."

From the scowl on Steve's face, he didn't like that.

Tony waved that away, too. "Look, it'll keep him safe but not helpless. I also took out some slagged material that, I suspect on closer examination, will turn out to be some tracking and control items. I'll make sure they're thoroughly disabled. And you know I added modules for sensation. No reason he shouldn't be able to _feel_ like a real boy." That reference, of course, went over Steve's head. Tony shrugged. "He's got actual bone and nerves inside that arm. It's not just a pop-on that starts and ends at the shoulder. I'd keep that in mind before you go taking him to a doctor or anything. Just FYI." Tony smiled, saluted, and started down the hall whistling. That had been a fun little project.

**

Clint had checked out the floor he'd claimed, and found he'd been given a larger apartment than anything he'd ever lived in. He didn't like it, and was already figuring out ways to make it smaller. Closing doors featured highly. 

In the meantime, though, he'd wandered back to the communal floor and fiddled with the item he'd stolen from HYDRA. 

"What's that?" 

He glanced up as Darcy flopped down onto the couch nearby, then looked back at the device. "It's a lint roller." 

She looked at it curiously, as if trying to figure out how it worked.

Clint kept his exasperation to himself. "I don't know what it is."

"Oh." 

Tony was puttering about behind the bar, wearing an odd assortment of wires and tubes that hooked into Iron Man boots and one glove. He'd dragged Bruce up from the lab, it looked like, and the two of them were talking animatedly about something. Clint really wasn't sure what. 

"Are you pro or con living in the tower?" Darcy asked, propping her hand on her cheek.

"I don't have anywhere else to go, do I?" Clint re-focused on the device. He was pretty sure it was an incendiary device of some sort, but there didn't seem to be any switches or buttons. 

Sam got off the phone and came walking over, bringing a storm cloud with him. "That's it. The insurance says it doesn't cover acts of terrorism. I get to keep paying a mortgage on a house that's been demolished."

"Push over," Clint snorted playfully.

"Oooh, that hurts coming from someone who doesn't have the attention span for kids' cartoons." 

"I have lawyers!" Tony shouted. "For your house, not the cartoons!"

"You have an apartment here," Clint pointed out. "We could even get you some creepy neighbors, if you miss yours." He pried at the casing with his fingernails. Nothing happened. 

"Why, when I have you?" Sam grinned. Then it faded. "But the VA is there." He gestured in what Clint guessed was supposed to be the direction of DC. It wasn't quite, but he didn't point that out.

Instead, he put the device on the floor, stood up, and jumped on it with both feet. It rolled awkwardly under him, making him take one staggering step to catch his balance.

"Impulse?" Sam asked simply.

Clint shrugged; at least it wasn't an impulse that bothered him. Not like throwing wontons at Thor's head. Then he caught sight of the heavy iron lamp on the side table and, knowing the whole time that it was a bad idea, picked it up and smashed the bottom down on the device.

"Hey, hey!" Tony said, striding over. "Let's not destroy my place, okay? I do that enough!"

"Sorry," Clint muttered as Sam took the lamp out of his hands. Then he added, "Uh oh."

"Uh oh?" Tony parroted. "What's uh oh?" 

Clint leaned so Tony could see. The device was blinking. Clint glanced around the room. Him, Tony, and Sam were the closest. Darcy was still sitting on the couch, now looking confused. Bruce was by the bar, and if this thing went off the only survivor in the room would be the Hulk. Which meant there might not be a lot of survivors in the building after a few minutes.

The blinking was increasing in frequency. "So," Clint said conversationally, "I think that might be a bomb."

Everyone moved at the same time. Sam grabbed Clint and hauled him away, flinging them both on top of Darcy. Bruce dropped behind the bar. Tony snatched the device up in his bare hand and the boots blasted off, his gloved hand breaking the window as he flew out and up. Up, up, until he was a dot. 

And then nothing.

And then an explosion. 

Pepper came running into the room about then. "JARVIS said -- what happened to the window?"

Clint hauled himself upward from under Sam, bracing himself over Darcy, and the words dropped out of his mouth like rocks. "I didn't mean to." 

Pepper paled. "Mean to what?"

Sam stood, Darcy scrambled upward breathing, "Oh my God, oh my God," over and over, and Clint sat back on his feet. 

He'd killed Tony Stark. 

"Pepper, I'm so sorry--"

Except then Tony Stark flew back in the broken window. Bruises were already forming on his face and what they could see of his neck and arm under the T-shirt, and long scratches were beginning to bleed, but he was alive. 

"Okay," Tony panted, "that was fun." He bent over, putting both hands on his knees. Pepper ran to him, hands flitting across his body as if checking for broken bones. 

"What happened?" she demanded, glaring around the room.

"Fuck, I didn't mean to," Clint said again, melting down onto the couch. He couldn't face everyone. 

"See, Pep? The suit is necessary. And do you have any idea how hard it is to steer with rudimentary flight capabilities and only a partial construct? Woooo!" 

Clint kept his face buried. Then he shot upward. He had to go. Now.

Sam was talking, and he heard Bruce say something about impulse control, but he was already at the stairs and heading down. He vaulted over the rail and caught it the next landing down. Then the next. Up above, the door he'd just exited opened. He expected Sam's voice, but instead it was Bruce. That stopped him.

"Clint?"

He hung on the railing, crouched with his feet braced on the wrought iron bars, prepared to propel him across and down another floor. 

Bruce spoke again, like he'd just found something or someone. "Oh. Hey."

Slowly, he looked up. Bruce was looking over the railing at him. "Hey," he said back.

"So..." Bruce took off his glasses and cleaned them on the tail of his button-up shirt. "Sam asked me to see if I could figure out what meds you were on from the empty bottles he had."

"Oh yeah?" Playing it cool seemed stupid given where Clint was hanging, but he did so anyway. 

"Yeah. And I think I have some possibilities. If you want to come back up and talk about it."

Clint shifted his weight a little, putting more pressure on his legs and less on his arms. "I don't think so."

"I could come down."

"Sure," he said after a long minute.

Bruce didn't hurry down the stairs. His footsteps were muted, because even in the stairways Stark only had the best. Eventually, he stood next to Clint and leaned his arms on the railing, as if he talked to people hanging off it every day. 

"Is that typical?" Bruce asked. "Of the impulse control problems?"

"I only use bombs on Tuesdays," Clint deadpanned. His arms were starting to burn. 

Bruce's lips twitched. "Good call. I figured I had some time, but I do have a prototype if you'd like to try. I don't think the quantities are quite right, yet. It's still in liquid form, and it might make you sleepy, dizzy, or give you headaches." 

He'd just nearly killed them all, and Bruce was worried about making him sleepy. "Sounds good," Clint managed. 

"My lab's a few floors down." Bruce straightened and started walking.

After a minute Clint climbed over the rail to the stairs and followed. He glanced up, and saw Sam watching over the railing.

"Want me to join?" Sam shouted.

"Nah. Talk Pepper and Tony down from killing me," Clint answered back. Damn. There went his place to live.

**

The big windows all along one wall -- the ones that made Bruce feel so uneasy about this lab -- were dark with nighttime. His alarm beeped and he pushed away from his desk reluctantly, stretching before he stood and began to pace around the room. It wasn't good to sit for long periods of time, and worse for him. Anything that put too much strain or stress on his mind or body wasn't good for him. He'd come to grips with that, even if it still left a burning resentment in his abdomen. 

It was hard to live in a body you couldn't trust. 

He glanced back toward the vials of liquid and rows of powders he was using, trying to recreate Clint's meds with limited success. He imagined Clint understood how hard it was to live in a body you couldn't trust. 

The lab doors opened with a whoosh, and Pepper came in. She wore flannel pajama bottoms and a thin silk tank top -- camisole? -- and carried two cups of tea. 

"I couldn't sleep," she said simply. "I thought you might not mind the company." She set one mug down on his desk, then folded herself into a chair. Cradling her own mug between her hands, she blew on the top.

"Why can't you sleep?" Bruce asked, not sitting down quite yet but stopping his pacing. He did some stretches, keeping his blood moving.

She shook her head. "Tony's back at it."

"If he hadn't had that suit," Bruce pointed out as gently as he could, "we could all have died."

Pepper exhaled heavily. "I know that. It's why I'm not protesting the suits anymore. I just..." She lifted one hand in a wordless gesture and finally finished, "I worry about him." 

Bruce nodded his understanding.

Pepper's gaze landed on his wrist. Only then did he realize he was massaging it, pressing hard into the tendons and muscle. "Does it bother you?" she asked.

He gave a pain filled smile and looked down. It had been scarring before the rescue. A large, ugly band of broken and oozing skin around his wrist, lumpy and granular where it was trying to heal, only to be re-injured.

Now there was so sign that anything had ever happened. The skin was pure and unblemished. "Phantom pain," he said. "Or maybe just a nervous habit, now." He hesitated, then summoned up courage and continued. "I would twist it just to feel a different kind of hurt." He shook his head. "The body prioritizes worse injuries, so breaking the scab would at least distract me for a little bit from the dull ache..." He drifted off, not sure if this was a disturbing conversation or an appropriate one. 

Pepper nodded. "Like slapping a mosquito bite to make it stop itching."

"Exactly." He gave her a relieved smile.

She chuckled behind her mug. "Tony doesn't understand that." She sipped, then asked, "Why can't you sleep?"

He glanced back at his wrist. "I'm afraid of my dreams," he admitted softly.

Pepper unfolded and stood, closing the distance between them with just a step and placing her hand over his wrist. "You should stay, Bruce. Tony is many things, but he's good at keeping people he cares about safe." 

He turned his hand in her grip and squeezed her fingers briefly, then dropped his hands to his sides. "I don't want to be a charity case." 

Pepper's lips quirked upward. "You do your work in your lab, Stark Enterprises makes money off it, and it's not charity. I'm speaking entirely as a CEO, here."

Bruce huffed a laugh. "Well, that does make me feel better." He'd be pinned. Exposed. With so many people around to hurt.

And that in itself was a form of safety. Surely even Ross wouldn't come after him here, with Tony's lawyers at the ready and civilians all around. 

"Get some sleep," Pepper told him, stepping away and padding silently toward the door. "And I'll try to follow my advice, too."

**

Steve left his head in his hands, hiding his embarrassment. "C'mon, Buck," he moaned into the breakfast table.

The table trembled as Bucky leaned on it, draping his body halfway across so he was head to head with Steve. "You know what _that_ reminds me of? That time the Commandos tried to test your serum tolerance for alcohol. What was it we got our hands on?"

Steve sat up. Nat's eyes were twinkling as she kicked back in her chair, the counter behind her littered with their breakfast detritus. "Absinthe," he reminded Bucky.

Bucky stood, grinning broadly. This was the Bucky that Steve had known. His heart warmed, seeing his old friend again. "We did get him drunk," Bucky crowed to Nat.

"For fifteen minutes I was blind drunk," Steve agreed, taking up the story. "And then I started puking."

Bucky cackled, flopping down into a chair.

"I puked on the Commandos," Steve continued, smiling. "And the bouncer when he tried to make us leave. And--"

"That cute dame who kept flirting with you," Bucky added.

Steve nodded in acknowledgment. "And then the cop."

That got a laugh out of Nat. 

"But," Steve added, swinging around to pin Bucky, "who was it who spent the night in the can?"

"Now that just wasn't fair," Bucky groaned. "Just because you were some dancing boy turned highfalutin hero--" the easy camaraderie dripped off his face, melting away like wax under a summer sun. His gaze twitched from one of them to the other. 

"Bucky," Steve said, at the same time Nat straightened carefully and said, "Barnes."

His metal hand tightened into a fist. Steve braced himself to leap across the table and catch his best friend before something terrible happened. He could see Nat sliding out of the chair, giving herself room to maneuver.

Then Bucky's breath caught in his throat, and he shivered. "I'm -- I'm here," he choked out. His pupils were large, still caught in the throes of memory, but he was working through it. His eyes closed, a wince creasing his forehead as he looked away. "God, what did I do?" he murmured.

Steve thought that wasn't something he'd been supposed to hear. 

"It's okay," Nat said gently, stepping toward Bucky and threading her fingers through his hair. She pulled him close, letting his temple lean against her chest, holding him while he trembled. 

Bucky's flesh hand flexed as if he was trying to hold on to something. Steve shifted chairs so he could sit closer, then linked his fingers with Bucky's. Some part of Bucky knew it was him; Bucky's grip tightened, so hard it would have broken another human's fingers. 

"Don't fight it," Steve said, relieved to see that Tony's metal arm had gone slack and useless. "We're here." 

Bucky breathed through the pain in his mind, the wince slowly easing off his face. When he opened his eyes again he looked weary, but black pupils had retreated to a normal size, leaving his gaze gray. He kept leaning against Nat, but looked at Steve. "Thanks," he said, and squeezed Steve's hand again.

Steve offered a plain little smile. "Of course." He glanced at Nat, at the uncomfortable look she wore. She wasn't used to offering comfort, but she could do it. This wasn't the Bucky he remembered from old times, but it was his old Bucky come through a horrible war. He was glad to have his friend back, if changed. And he could grieve what he'd lost, too.

Bucky slowly un-twined their fingers, putting his flesh hand on Nat's hip. She murmured something in Russian, and he responded in kind.

"I'm going to go prepare for the day," Steve said, excusing himself and heading toward Bucky's door. The new apartments were neat, if overly large. 

Nat and Bucky both said goodbyes, but were obviously caught up in each other. Not sexual, Steve thought. Not yet. But that was coming, and soon.

He found himself smiling as he headed into the hall, then the elevator. He had other friends here to be with, and that was a good feeling too.

**

Clint tipped the contents of the vial into his mouth, grimacing at the bitter taste but swallowing anyway. He'd reported back to Bruce, as ordered: sleepiness and dizziness, check. Paranoia: lessened. Impulse control: still nonexistent. He'd nicked his finger and used the blood to paint a smiley face on the fridge. Sam had cleaned it up.

Upon hearing the report Bruce had fiddled with the drug quantities, added something else, and called him down to take more meds.

"How fast did the SHIELD cocktail work?" Bruce asked, making notes on a clipboard.

"Almost right away," Clint told him. He waggled the vial, watching the last drop cling to the side, and then handed it back to Bruce.

"Whatever I come up with won't be exactly the same," Bruce warned. "But I'm sure that, with SHIELD's building blocks, we can find something that will work similarly."

"Maybe it'll be better," Clint suggested, though he had no real hope of that. If it was just _as good_ , he'd be happy. 

Bruce looked indulgent. "Well, report back this evening. If you get any odd side effects--"

"Tell you immediately." Clint straightened. At least there were no medical beds here. He got to lean against a desk and feel like a normal person. "You've got it, Banner." God, he hoped this worked.

**

Everyone showed up for dinner, which meant it was chaos. Bucky -- and how strange to think of himself that way, after all this time -- kept to his chair and let the sounds flow around him. Nat sat on one side with Banner beyond her, and Steve on the other with Jane beyond him. 

So many names to remember, and he remembered them so easily. He knew he'd always been good with names and faces, but now it was unnatural. Something they'd done to him? Impossible to know.

Darcy stood, bellowing over the chatter, "Everyone, pipe down!" She grinned across at Jane, who had been trying to get everyone's attention, and flopped back into her seat.

"Thanks, Darce," Jane said wryly. "Tony and Pepper, we want to thank you for your hospitality." She smiled at him, and it seemed earnest. "Tomorrow the three of us," her gesture took in Thor and Darcy, "are headed back to London. Thor is, of course, going to take you up on your offer of an apartment here." She looked at Thor, and he was looking back fondly. "When he's needed, or would just like to visit, he'll have a spot."

"And what about you?" Tony asked, leaning forward. "The offer stands."

"And it's a generous one," Jane said. Bucky wondered what offer they were talking about; deals going on in back rooms. "But the best place for my research is currently London." 

"I tried," Tony sighed with overblown fatalism.

Thor spoke, his voice rolling with power. "And what of the rest of our warriors? Have you made your decisions?"

The moment of truth. Bucky glanced at Steve and Nat, knowing Steve had decided to stay -- Bucky had decided for them, really -- but that Nat was still on the fence. She kept going back and forth; one minute it was yes, the next she was panicking about being tied down in a known location.

To his surprise, it was Bruce who cleared his throat and sat forward. "If I may," Bruce said, and his voice was gentle and diffident coming right after Thor's. "Nat, Clint, your covers are blown. You might as well stay. Sam, your house is wrecked and there's a VA here. Of course, I'd understand if you still wanted to go home, but having an apartment here isn't a bad idea. If something else happens, it's a good base of operations. If I have everyone's specs on file, it makes medical treatment easier for the non-humans among us. And it's safe here. There's not much, now that SHIELD is gone, that can watch over us aside from the paparazzi that follows Tony, Tony's money, and each other." He stopped and looked at Tony and Pepper. "I'd like to take you up on the offer."

Pepper smiled warmly. "We're glad to have you." She looked around. "And everyone else?"

In the end, it was only Sam, Thor, Darcy and Jane who decided they'd have apartments but live predominantly elsewhere. Clint and Nat warned they'd be gone half the time, but agreed their base of operations would be here.

Bucky squeezed Nat's hand under the table, and she glanced at him sidelong. Bucky could feel Steve chuckling at them both.

"Well," Tony said, kicking back and looking pleased. "We should have a reality show." He spread his hands above his head, framing a nonexistent sign. "The Real Avengers of New York!"

JARVIS chimed in for the first time that night, startling Bucky. "More like 'Full House,' Sir." 

Bucky didn't get the reference, and was glad to see Steve and Thor didn't, either. It was nice to be among people as out of touch as he was. 

"What about HYDRA?" Clint asked. "They found Sam's. There was a tracking device on Bucky, and I'm sure they're missing their explosive."

"You let me deal with that," Tony said, smirking. "I have a plan."

**

Thor, Jane, and Darcy were flying out that afternoon, so Tony had arranged the press conference for lunchtime. He wanted all of the Avengers to be there -- though the non-combatants were safely inside the Tower, where no one would see them and get the grand idea to use them as leverage. He counted Bruce and Bucky as combatants, though; they had reputations.

Tony stood at his favorite spot outside the Tower, glancing back to be sure the others were arranged behind him. Clint and Sam stood close to each other, but not giving anything away. Nat and Steve flanked the Winter Solider, who wore such a scary look that they really didn't need to protect him. And then there was Thor, decked out in full godly regalia, hammer at his side. Yup, they looked great.

Tony faced the press, pulling off his customary sunglasses so he could play serious. "No questions, please. No questions," he said, waiting for the crowd to quiet down. "In the wake of the Battle for New York, the downfall of SHIELD and the advent of HYDRA, the kidnapping and torture of Dr. Bruce Banner, and my own rescue of the President, I have decided that a base of operations for those under threat or those who are trying to protect the world is in order. As of today, this becomes Avengers' Tower. If HYDRA wants to come after Barnes, or Ross wants to come after Banner, you know where to find them. We'll be waiting. And a special memo to HYDRA: we found your little bomb and detonated it safely. Don't be stupid."

He waited a dramatic beat, then finished. "We're here to protect people. Don't forget it." Then he turned and cut between Thor and Steve, knowing they were going to follow him. Questions were thrown toward them, but he'd already briefed everyone and they just walked back into the building, giving the press a show-stopping shot of strength as they went.

When the doors were safely closed, he started to grin. "That should give the media outlet something to talk about."

"You know they're going to say we're a danger here," Bruce predicted darkly.

"Let 'em. We're hiding in plain sight, and the first time we save the city -- again -- they'll stop."

"The fallout's going to be nuts," Sam muttered.

"Hey!" Tony turned as he reached the elevator, facing them with open arms. "At least I didn't announce that Hawkeye and -- what are we calling you? -- Falcon are shacking up! Could be worse." He pushed the elevator button and entered his code for the private floors while everyone else shuffled in. 

"Yeah, Tony," Clint said with a deadpan air. "You're the very soul of discretion."

When they were quiet, Tony grinned and added, "I'm waiting to use that gossip for the next time I need a distraction from something I did."

"Hey!" Sam yelped.

Clint just leaned forward and said, very quietly, "Don't make me shoot out your toys."

Tony glanced at him. "That's not nice." Then he settled again. The elevator doors opened, and he smiled. Avengers Tower. Had a nice ring to it.

**

Clint lay on Sam's bed, toodling on a StarkPad while Sam paced around the room, on the phone with his bank. Arguing over house stuff again. 

This, Clint thought, was why he didn't bother owning. This, and the paper trail. And commitment issues. And the general sense that his life was forfeit and he wouldn't live long enough to see old age anyway, and what other reason was there for owning a house?

He paused, doing a mental check to see if paranoia was lurking behind those thoughts. But, no, just his usual sense of reality. He relaxed a little. 

Dizzy spells still came and went, but it was no longer constant. Whatever Banner had done, it had helped.

Sam hung up the phone and flopped down on the bed beside him. "Hey."

"Hey." Clint didn't look away from the StarkPad, but he did angle it so that Sam could see the kitten videos, too. They watched cats beating up dogs for a few minutes, then Sam pointed to one of the videos on the sidebar, and they watched cats climbing into boxes for a few more minutes. After that it was cats being beaten up by birds, then a squirrel running an obstacle course to get to the feeder, and then a foal playing with a ball two thirds its size. 

By then nearly half an hour had gone by. Clint turned his head to look at Sam, taking in an easy smile and warm brown eyes. "So," Clint said.

"So," Sam agreed.

It took a long while for Clint to summon the courage he needed. Sam knew so much more about him than most people did, and he'd learned about it the hard way: watching Clint hoard food, listening to stories told when Clint couldn't stop it, hearing the paranoia. Clint spread his hands. "Here's me. Not crazy. Or at least, less crazy." It had been a whole day without a paranoid freak out. Impulse control was still an issue, but a much smaller one. "What do you think?" The fact that he cared so much about the answer scared him a little. He'd hoped that his attraction to Sam was just more impulse problems, but over the last day he'd become sure that wasn't the case.

Sam rubbed his hand across Clint's stomach, rucking up his shirt. "I like it."

Clint gave a dry little smile. "You sure? You even sure you're gay?"

"Bi-curious," Sam said, and leaned in to kiss Clint. "Can you deal with that?"

Clint smiled against Sam's mouth. "Yeah," he said. "I think so." And if Sam was only here periodically, that was even better. No smothering commitment to have issues with. Then he gave a wicked grin. "You know what they say. Bi now, gay later." 

Sam snorted. "Whatever, circus freak." 

Clint was going to retort, but Sam was too busy kissing him. He heaved upward to roll Sam, to put _Sam_ on the bottom for once, but stopped when Sam suddenly flailed.

Making a face, Sam reached under his body, under the covers, and pulled out a now squashed packet of Twinkies. "Really?" he demanded in exasperation, holding the package up for Clint to see.

"In case I got hungry later," Clint lied. 

"In my _bed_?"

"Okay, princess," Clint said dismissively. He shifted down Sam's body, shoving the worn T-shirt up so he could get to soft, dark skin over hard muscles. 

"Don't be a hoarder," Sam laughed back, and twisted to try and regain control. 

**

His apartment became his friend. It was better than the chaos of the communal room, when everyone was there. Or even Tony's loud proclamations and overly animated speech when it was just them. His fridge was stocked, and Steve showed him how to use the online ordering and delivery system. 

He had clothes. Ones that fit, that still had the crispness of being new, and he could wash them in his own little washer and dryer, or send them out to be laundered by someone else while he bathed in the sunlight that poured through the big windows. The light glimmered off his metal arm, and he wandered around shirtless to enjoy the warmth on his skin.

He didn't have to steal anything. He belonged here, in this room accumulating an odd mishmash of current tech and antique decoration. Memory still came to him in flashes, fragments, snippets, images. It washed over him and left, sometimes devastating, sometimes not. 

That was all right. Here, Bucky had people he could trust. 

 

\--End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnd, done! I hope you enjoyed it. I certainly enjoyed writing it. :D This is basically the kind of stuff I write a lot of; emotional pain, growth, and healing. Light at the end of the tunnel, if not totally happy. Some romance. Usually some sex. A little action. A lot of fucked up mindsets. If you liked this, I'm going to encourage you to check out my novels (all romance/actiony/mind fuckery of this sort, with a little more romance to them, both m/f and m/m and one _awesome_ f/m/m) at jbmcdonald.com. Support a fic author. ;)
> 
> JB  
> -who has no shame


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